A Man of Focus
by KTWizard
Summary: Roanapur, the Den of Thieves. Home to the most violent and dangerous people on Earth. The mobs that deal in blood, the cops more filthy than sewage, assassins with a thirst for violence, and businessmen who saw only profit and gains. What better place for the devil to hide then amongst his own kind? [Cover Image by G0966]
1. Every Ending Has A Beginning

The boat was not the safest he had ever been on, far from the most comfortable. It was only slightly larger than an eight-wheel moving van, liable to fail a safety test for sea-worthiness. Metal pieces of its frame stuck out from the walls. The few chairs that were present were barren of any padding.

The chairs bothered him the most.

But he was not to disturb any commander of the ship, no matter the circumstance. No matter their wrongs, he could not risk them bringing attention to him, or anyone's attention around him. It would risk too much for too little.

So he settled with sitting against the outer wall of the boat, metal cabin of the ship at his back and the railings of the boat just out of reach from his feet. His hand was cupped around the rag on his head, hiding him from anyone with even a curious eye.

The rag, dirty as it was, was at least comparable to the rest of his garments. The remains of clothing that may, at one time, may have been a nice suit, but now looked as if they were forgotten remains of a sewer worked. They were coats in grime, in sweat, tears and holes, and blood. The blood was not his own.

"Ghh!" He suddenly let out, gritting his teeth painfully.

His hands flew to his side, cupping a wound beneath his soiled shirt. It was a stab wound, minor one, but untreated and likely carrying a festering infection. He hadn't had the time or means to treat it.

Another pressure met him then, more comfortable though likely just as familiar. His jaw relaxed slowly, enough to allow him to turn his head. He saw what he expected to see.

"Easy boy," he spoke to the dog at his side, his companion pushing against his arm. His voice was soft, hardly a whisper, just enough for the dog to acknowledge. "Relax."

His other hand reached up and stroked the fur between the dogs to ears, scratching at his scalp. It calmed the boy quickly, the dog lowering itself to the boat deck, its head leaning on the man's leg.

He let go of his wound , not stopping to scratch the dog's head. His fingers ran through the stubble of his light beard, flicking away the grim that had gotten caught in his coarse hairs.

It had been sometime since he was able to shower, sleep in a bed, or sleep at all. They were all far off wishes of his, but not so far off he did not pursue them.

After all, he was on this decrepit boat to find those things.

His eyes looked off the boats port, watching the horizon to steady his equilibrium. It was a tactic used to calm the mind, even one's temperament. It was instructed to him in what feels like a lifetime ago, when he fought with men who would celebrate in the day and fight at night.

He had to focus on that now, remember what he had and what he needed. He had to remember so he could do what had to be done.

He had clothes, though hardly fit to be called proper or worth wearing. He had his dog, who would not leave his side even if asked. He had his health, though that was a debate he did not wish to have.

But he needed food. He needed new clothes. He needed a bed. But most of all, likely more importantly than all, he needed a gun.

He recognized what he needed as a land mass began to trail by the boat.

It had likely been visible for a few hours now, but he was not looking off the bow. The bow was too exposed for him to be near. He was on the portside, and as such, he was able to watch the stone monuments of port drift by.

And monuments they were, because there was little else one could call the statue of Buddha.

It was hardly a masterpiece of a design, not even cared for well. Portions of the great statue had fallen away in chunks, some as large as his own body. Any dignity or divinity that was once upon the statue of the holy man was lost, be it to time, the sea, or whatever else passed it by.

He watched the tall statue crawl by, the Buddha of Peace and Balance turning its back on him. The martyr of inner peace paying no heed to the town behind him.

He sighed as he heard the horn for the boat sound. It was time to leave. His dog got up quickly , shaking his head and eagerly looking around. He must know they were leaving.

"It's okay, boy," he comforted the dog, petting him once more. He pushed off of the boat's cabin, reaching his feet on unsteady legs. He didn't mind boats, but he was trained on solid ground. He preferred it.

Standing up, he could at least see the city ahead.

The city of Roanapur.

It looked well-kept from the boat and at a fair distance, surprisingly. Last time he was here, the city was war-torn with the rise of the Russian Mafia. Viggo had requested him to take out one of the high-ranked members of the Triads. He had left shortly after.

Now, it looked as if the city were proper, one well-managed by time. But he was a man who fell for no illusions. And the city across the water, growing with every second that passed, was an illusion of peace.

The city of Roanapur was well-known through all of the Continentals. The city of assassins and thieves, the town of hired men and forgotten women, the den of the black market. It was not a place the assassins of the Continental would freely travel.

Because it was the one city the Continental had failed to form.

That made it perfect.

No den of assassins seeking his head, no trade of information to share his name, he would be a ghost in a town of criminals and thieves. He'd be unobvious, hidden, just another man in a crowd of criminals.

But it was only temporary, it had to be.

It would take only a whisper for word of who he was to reach the many of assassin's and head-hunters on the streets of the bloody city. No matter how clean it looked from a distance, he knew well the bodies that were thrown into the alleys daily. Because he knew the rulers of the city.

Roanapur of Thailand, ruled by gangs across the world. The Russian Mob, the Hong Kong Triad, Italian Mafia, and the Columbian Cartel. They were all rulers of the city, four kings over the same plot of land.

He sighed, rolling his stiff shoulders. He was putting too much thought into this. He had to focus. He came here for supplies, for objects, and then he would leave. He could not stay in a city were even the innocent were not safe.

He had to keep moving, or everyone would know his name.

The boat's horn blew again, his dog barking at the sudden noise. His hand fell on the dog's neck, calming his companion with gentle pats. He didn't like loud noises. Neither of them did.

But it at least meant they were close to port, something his eyes could tell. Once they were there, he knew where to go. He could only hope it was in the same spot as before.

But it had been a long time since he came here last. Years before he retired and years of retirement. The powers may not have changed, but the people could. There was no schedule to the underworld, there was no place to learn of its happenings.

The only place that could have possibly allowed that never been allowed to form.

He sighed. He was thinking too much.

"C'mon boy," he spoke to the dog at his side. The boy stood quickly, shaking his body as if he were wet. He took pace along the boat's bow, approaching the undocking station. There were already others lined up to leave.

"Welcome! Welcome all!" A voice on the dock was yelling. He saw the man, arms raised outward and a broad smile on his face. He was not a man to be trusted. "I pray to the Buddha your trip was peaceful, and your stay in our city is eventful!"

He looked over the others on the boat with him. None of them looked to be here for relaxation. Grizzled faces, unkempt shirts, lack of luggage, hands to close to their hips. They were not here for vacation, but neither was he.

He ignored the man as he made his way down the plank, his dog trailing just behind him. The rag on his head made it hard to see, but he was not blind. His feet on the concrete of the port was a blessed feeling, but one he hardly had time to enjoy.

The bay was busy with activity, ships of sizes big and small docking and departing, exchanging cargo in crates he couldn't see. They were marked with flags from a dozen different countries, each carrying the hidden but obvious cargo native to their homelands.

Workers hurried to load or unload the appropriate merchandise, foremen yelling out orders and cranes moved the heavier bins to the ships' cargo holds. It was clear, even without a visit in years, that business had not suffered here.

But he was not here for a cargo ship. He was not here for a pleasure cruise.

But he did need a ship, and there was one ship he needed.

"Let's go, boy," he spoke to his dog, beginning his walk into the city. His dog kept pace with him easily, making a hole in the crowd of people ahead. They didn't want to touch a man covered in rags

That was fine. He didn't want to be seen.

* * *

It was another day in the Lagoon Company, another day in the city of the Thieves.

Rokuro "Rock" Okajima was in the office, sitting on a moderate sofa with a newspaper in hand. He had been there since they had opened, promptly at nine a.m. He had prepared a pot of coffee, cleaned the office space of excess materials, and made it perfectly presentable for anyone who walked in.

It was his job, after all. Document the work being done and bring in the work that knocked at the door. As a former-salaryman, he was excellent at keeping a straight and respectful persona even when faced with those who would kill him without regrets or worries.

One such person was lying down on a couch opposite of him.

He folded the newspaper just enough to see his partner, Revy "Two-Hands". A pirate through and through, expert marksman, and professional drinker, or so she would preferred to be called. She was currently doing maintenance on her guns, or at least checking on their ability to operate. Rock was not sure of the difference.

All he was sure of was that it was a system for her, a habit she was dedicated to, and it was not one any man who wished to live would interrupt. He was one such man. He knew what to expect from her as well as he did the newspaper he was holding.

A paper documenting the events of Roanapur from day to day, but never once mentioning the most important things in the city. No mention of the gangs that operated there, no mention of the assassins and foreign agents, no mention of a thing that would make national headlines anywhere else.

Instead, he saw news that the police chief was staying on for another year and a new building was to be constructed following the demolition of a run-down factory. Such was the norm of Roanapur. It was something he had come to accept.

"Hey Dutch!" Revy suddenly shouted, nearly making Rock jump. He only crinkled the paper he read. "We got anything coming in yet? I'm getting bored outta my fucking skull over here." It was difficult for her to stay for long.

"Calm down, Revy. You're gonna put us all on edge." Dutch responded. Rock looked at him, the head of the Lagoon Company. Leaning back in his chair with muscular arms at his chest, he did not appear as someone to test. Experience told Rock that was a truth.

A Vietnam veteran, or so he told, that commanded respect throughout Roanapur. It took Rock a long time to realize he had respect because he never took sides, only did favors and jobs for those that paid, and nothing more. His dark skin did a lot to show he belonged to no ruling mob.

"A light day of work means the bosses around town are getting ready for something big. Work like ours doesn't come steadily, so we gotta be cool when the days are long." And his wisdom was sage like. It only hurt that they were referring to criminal enterprises.

"There's gotta be something that Big Sis needs us for. Not like she trusts anyone else to move her guns." Revy retorted. That was also true, and further testament to their abilities. But those were not jobs he enjoyed.

"We did a shipment for them last week. They don't that many guns in Roanapur, Revy. Cause too much friction with the Triads." Rock nodded at the logic. It was a truth. If the Triads new the Russians were bringing in more weapons, they'd do the same in kind.

They were in a balance of power right now, and any side over playing their hand would tip it into a war. A war that everyone had been waiting for since the Russians first showed up, or so Rock had been told.

"Look Revy, I get it," Dutch went on. "The heat's intense, the work ain't comin', and your waiting to blow some poor soul's brains out for looking at you the wrong way." Rock couldn't say he was wrong. "But we gotta keep to our bases and not alter the status quo. We move with it, we sure as hell don't change it."

"Bunch of BS," Revy grumbled back, spinning her handguns around her fingers. Rock prayed to all deities of the Shinto religion that the guns were unloaded. In this city though, he knew they weren't listening. "How do they expect ta stay on our good side if they don't give us the work."

"We work for them, not the other way round," Dutch smoothly replied again. "Ain't their job to worry how happy we are, just that we can do what they pay." Rock could tell that wasn't what Revy wanted to hear.

A grit jaw, palm against her head, and a pair of guns likely locked and loaded. Her angry was more terrifying that most things Rock had seen in his life. Thankfully, he knew how to defuse the ticking bomb.

"We can go to Yellow Flag later." He supplied smoothly, doing his best to keep his eyes on the paper. She hated it when he pampered her. "We can cool off with shots. I'll probably need more than you though." She loved it when he challenged her.

"HA! This again?" Revy shot back across the table separating them. "Last time you tried that Rock you were puking out your liver like a fuckin firestorm." Rock hid his sigh of relief at her banter. "Your on though, long as that bitch Eda doesn't show up, might be just what I need ta calm me down."

 **Knock Knock**

Rock turned towards the entrance, already knowing Dutch and Revy were doing the same. No, they were doing more.

Revy had gone from relaxing on the sofa to armed and focus in the span of a breath of air. Both of her guns were aimed at the wooden surface, moving away from the doorway. Dutch had straightened behind his desk, likely to reach for the shotgun tapped to the underside of his seat

Rock knew why though. People didn't knock on doors in Roanapur, least not at Lagoon company. People came in when they wanted a job or called when they needed their service. You knocked on doors when you wanted attention.

And, as Mr. Chang had showed once, ambushes started with knowing where the enemy was.

"I'll… get it," Rock stated as he stood slowly, placing the newspaper on the coffee table. Revy made a look at him that threatened bodily harm, but she didn't stop him. It made sense for him to open the door. He was the only one who didn't carry a gun.

"Careful Rock," Dutch spoke behind him. He only nodded as he approached the door, his footsteps echoing as he reached it. Gunfire didn't sound and the door wasn't kicked open. Good signs so far.

He opened the door with a twist of the handle, stepping back to allow Revy a clear shot to his side. He knew how she moved. But it turned out to be unnecessary.

A man was standing behind the door, a likely homeless man with little to his name. A rag was settled over his head and falling low enough to cover his upper chest. Suit clothes that were likely found in the ocean clung to his body, and the stench of uncleanliness pervaded him.

He still could have been a threat.

"Woof!" Rock looked down at the sound, seeing the dog standing beside the man. Tongue lolled out and tail wagging, it was very different from the attack dogs used by Hotel Moscow or the Triads. It was domesticated, in a sense.

But the man's hand was on the dogs head, scratching his scalp. The other was hanging from his side, open and showing it was far from concealing any dangerous weapon. He wasn't a proper customer, as far as Rock could judge, but he wasn't a threat.

"May I come in?" the man asked in a stoic voice. Rock blinked away his confusion at the question. The man was a customer of some sort at least. It would be abhorrent to not give him the respect he needed.

"Of course, please forgive my delay," Rock answered with a quick bow, stepping out of the way soon after. The man walked in with a strong posture, something that reminded Rock of the many soldiers around Roanapur.

As he entered, his eyes crossed with Revy, she watching the man as well. Her guns were drawn, but not aimed at the man. He either didn't notice or didn't mind. Given the city, it was likely the latter.

But Rock did see Revy stare at him for a few moments longer, getting him to look at her. Slowly, to show her confusion, her lips moved without a sound. He made out the words easily.

'What the fuck?'

He shrugged in response, having less of an idea of what was going on than the infamous Revy "Two-Hands". He was just an ex-salaryman in the city of Thieves.

"Hey, you lost?" Dutch asked as the man approached his desk. Rock couldn't tell if his superior was or wasn't reaching for his shotgun still, not from across the room. "Cause this ain't a church and sure as hell ain't a charity."

The man didn't say anything for a moment, just staring down at Dutch with his hand petting his dog's head. Revy was aiming her guns at the man again, likely ready for a worst case scenario. That meant Rock should do the opposite.

"Would you care for some coffee, sir?" He asked from behind the man. He felt more than saw Revy give him another look of disbelief, but he was used to such expressions from her.

"No, thank you," the man's stoic voice replied again. His head, covered by a rag, turned back to Dutch. "I'm looking for a boat."

"We got one," Dutch responded easily. "Need us to deliver somethin' for you? Or you looking for a pick-up?"

"To take, actually." The man spoke in response. It was the same stoic voice as before. Then again, Dutch had much the same.

"You can try the harbor, got dozens of them down there," Rock's superior returned easily. Rock understood. They were a service, not sales. It was not their job to give any information on clients, even for purchase.

"Do you know anyone selling then?" Rock as starting to feel the tension ease from the room as the questions went on. The man was odd, even in a city like Roanapur, but he didn't appear to be a threat.

"We ain't a fucking kiosk here," Revy grumbled next to Rock. He saw putting her Cutlasses away, crossing her arms to lean back against the wall. She likely judged the same as him. That was good. "Try asking someone else for help."

"Revy's blunt, but she ain't wrong," Dutch responded, looking around the man to give Revy. Rock heard her blow air out of her face in a huff. "Best I can tell ya is to check out Hotel Moscow or the Triads. Could get lucky with the Cartel, but that's about it."

"Would you be able to help me… arrange a meeting?" The man's voice hadn't changed inflection once. He wasn't nervous, disappointed, or anything else Rock could pick up.

As a salaryman, he was taught to listen for such things so better deals could be made. This man, talking to Dutch and with Revy at his back, didn't appear any different than when he was knocking on their door.

"That's more than we usually do," Dutch dismissed. "We're offer services, not secretaries or goods. You wanna go somewhere, we can take ya, but that's all you can get from us."

"I understand," the man responded without a moment of pause. Odd, because usually people had to think when situations did not turn out as expected. "I am hoping for a favor from an old friend."

Rock didn't have much time to think on what the man meant. He was reaching up with his hand, grabbing at the rag on his head. He crumpled the material with a hard grip of his fist, pulling it off and out of the way.

Rock could only see the back of his head, matted dark and unkempt hair, but he could also see Dutch. And he saw his superior's eyes widen when the man exposed himself.

"Well shit," Dutch spoke simply. "Of all the men in the world, never thought I'd see you be seein' you walking through my door again." Rock watched, carefully, as Dutch leaned back in his chair.

He was relaxed, no longer consulting with the man. They clearly knew one another.

"Guess retirement didn't work out for a ya, huh Wick?"

 **ClickClick**

Rock whipped his head to see Revy aiming her pistols at the man again, hammers drawn and triggers ready. Only experience told him not to reach for her arms to stop her. But as worrying as her trigger-happy nature was, the way she looked was far more concerning.

Revy appeared afraid, terrified even. It was an expression he'd only seen on her once, when Balalaika was threatening his life in Japan. She charged into every situation grinning and screaming with joy. But now, because of this man's name, she looked ready to kill not out of joy, but fright.

But what made it worse, was Dutch not stopping her. She was the one who always calmed her down when things got hot. But right now… he wasn't doing anything. Rock felt his stomach plummet at the idea.

"Things happened," The man, Wick, replied to Dutch. His voice still had not changed. Perhaps he did not realize Revy had guns on him. Possible, but very unlikely. "But I do need a boat."

"Shit John," Dutch cursed again, but using another name for the man. It was difficult for Rock to tell the order of the names, but John was likely his given name. It sounded like a common American name. "You must've kicked one hell of a hound to be lookin' like that and asking for handouts."

"A lot happened." He spoke again in a monotone voice. The dog at his side was still sitting, wagging his tail in wait. Rock wasn't sure what to do, not until he was called. This was an unknown situation. "Do you know of a-"

"You're not hearing me John," Dutch interrupted the man, shaking his head with the words. "You bein' in this kinda situation means something really bad must've happened." Rock didn't have enough information to know what was going on.

Who was this John Wick? Why was Revy so on edge? Why was Dutch being evasive? It wasn't adding up.

He watched as the man, John, reached into his suit pocket. Rock saw Revy jerk her hand, but no bullets went flying. That was good, but something told him it was only a matter of time. But when his fist came out of his pocket, there was no weapon.

Instead, he placed two golden coins on Dutch's desk.

They were gold, likely. Perhaps colored gold, but he could think of only a few places that used gold colored coins for currency, yet still be enough to reasonably afford the Lagoon company's price.

They had to be real gold, if not only for Dutch's stern expression.

A glare hit his sunglasses, hiding the likely contemplative look of his superior. He was weighing the situation, but with what factors Rock didn't know. He didn't know enough about the man and it was starting to upset him. Everyone had a tool in Roanapur, and information was his.

And he didn't have enough of it.

"That ain't a cheap price, 'specially for just wanting to know where to get a boat," Dutch began. "But I still can't help ya John." The thumbs of his crossed hands held his head, staring down at the coins.

The room was silent after the declaration. Rock could hear his heartbeat, the heavy breathing of Revy, and the dog panting by John's side. But that was it. It was a stalemate of the worst kind. It all depended on someone that wasn't a part of Lagoon company.

But then, slowly, John picked his pieces of gold back, placing them in his suit pocket. His pulled back the rag that he had worn, collecting it in the crux of his arm. His dog made an odd sound, maybe because John wasn't scratching his head.

"Thank you," the man, John, spoke simply before nodding his head towards Dutch. Rock's superior did the same.

Then John turned towards Rock and Revy. It gave him his first solid look at the man.

A dark stubble beard grew around his angular face, matched by the circle's that hunger under his eyes. A scar, small and noticeable, was beneath his eyes, above the line of his beard. It was obvious his lips were set in a flat frown, but far from a scowl.

But most obvious of all were his eyes. They were eyes that looked at him, at Revy, and the guns on him without blinking or straying. He did not flinch nor even twitch at the sight. It meant simply one thing.

He was used to it.

Just as Rock was used to assisting customers old or new. And one such customer was heading towards the door.

"Please, allow me," Rock spoke with a quick bow, ingrained from his time as a Salaryman. With a quick twist, he opened the door back to Roanapur.

The dog was quick to jog out the door, twisting in place before facing John again. Rock watched the man walk by, without a nod or even breath of annoyance. Everything was so set, stoic, immovable. It was unnerving.

"Stay safe John," Dutch called from across the room. The man stopped, but that was all. "It's too bad I can't help ya, but ya might have better luck if ya say a few prayers." Prayers? That was odd for Dutch to say. It had to be a message of some sorts.

John must have understood, because now the man nodded over his shoulder, as stiffly as he had done everything so far. Then, without another moment wasted, he left. Rock shut the door behind him.

When John was gone, Rock released a breath of air he hadn't realized he was holding. Revy dropped her guns with a far more audible groan, just shy of a scream. It was a good thing that the tension had left, but it was not time to act like it had never been there.

Rock looked from Revy to Dutch, both of his co-workers who knew apparently all about John Wick, yet feared him as he was sure the average criminals did the Triads.

"Who… was that?" Rock asked carefully, moving his gaze from Revy to Dutch, both acting in ways that usually followed a battle of gangs or bad deal.

"That, Rock, was the one and only John Wick." He did not know the name, at least not before this meeting. It had as much significance to him as one of the tourists down the road.

"Babayaga," Revy followed. Rock turned to her, raising a brow. He didn't miss Revy massaging her skull with the ends of her guns, barrels pointed towards the ceiling.

She spoke Russian. But more importantly, Revy was still keeping the side of the loaded guns up against her head.

"He's like the fucking boogeyman for the Russians, like the worst fucking nightmare you're ever gone have." That was even odder, mostly because it was Revy who it.

"That sounds… extreme," Rock spoke simply. He didn't doubt Dutch or Revy. This was their world. The man just… didn't look terrifying.

"No, Rock, you're not getting' it," Revy stalked over to him quickly, faster than he could normally react. He tripped over his feet as he fell against the wall, Revy staring down at him, guns still in hand. "That guy used to be like the biggest reason people don't fuck with the Russians, _anywhere_."

"She's ain't wrong." Dutch spoke up. "John Wick was a career hitman, more capable than anyone you're gonna find in this pit stain of the world."

Rock faintly heard a cigar being lit, no doubt Dutch. He was just focused on Revy, standing over him with an expression that looked ready to explode. He hated that.

"But he didn't look-"

 **BAM**

He stopped as Revy slammed her fists again the wall above him. It was a blessing her guns didn't go off with the force. It was the least of his worries right now.

Her eyes were boring into his, the same look she gave him almost three years ago. Any words he might have had fell and died in his throat. This wasn't the Revy that was looking out for him. This wasn't his gun.

This was a Revy staring at a target she didn't know if she could hit. That made him a useless bullet.

"Wick is like the deadliest thing you're ever gonna met, Rock." She spat out the words. "Big Sis told me about him when I started doing big jobs for her. She joked that maybe I could get at his level one day. That _was_ the fucking joke!"

"Then what did he-"

"She told me how he took out the Columbians, Mexs, and fucking Pakistanis in New York all in _one night_." She hissed the words now. Rock almost wished she were screaming instead. "By himself, he took out at least a two or three hundred fucking perras and God knows how many dune coons."

It took Rock now to realize just why Revy wasn't letting go of her guns.

She was afraid he was coming back.

"Last I heard of him, he retired after that," Dutch spoke up from across the room. "Last I saw of him, was somethin' like eight or nine years ago. Balalaika was having trouble with a rouge Spetsnaz officer that wouldn't join the Hotel."

He took a break from his breathing, presumably, to let out a puff of smoke. Rock didn't look to check. If he looked away from Revy, she'd cuss him out or punch him.

"Balalaika put in a request for him, wanting to keep the rouge member of her team quiet or something." Balalaika hired an American? Something about that was impossible.

"No, Balalaika would not trust an American for a job like that," Rock argued with the logic. He _knew_ there was no way the head of Hotel Moscow would do such a thing. She'd risk war with the Triads just for the thrill of hunting Americans. There was no way she'd invite one to help her. "That's just… there's no way she would-"

"Maybe she did it cause she wanted to keep the situation quiet," Dutch interrupted him. Revy was looking away now, but Rock didn't dare move an anger her further. "Maybe she wanted ta given example to any other new bloods in her Hotel."

He heard his superior take in another long drag, likely trying to choke himself on the cigar. It released endorphins that stimulated pleasure sensors, similar to the burn of alcohol.

"Or maybe, Rock, she got John to do it cause she wanted to see what he could do." Dutch was surely reminiscing now. "Boogeymen like John Wick don't come here often, but they're like names on the wall when you start digging deep. An opportunity came along for her to see what John could do, so she took it."

Seeing as John was alive, and not at war with the Hotel, Rock could guess the outcome of the ordeal. But Revy was sure to provide the details.

"The fucker took out a Spetsnaz agent that was giving Sis problems like it was nothing. He fucking tracked, killed, and got out of there before Sis got the word." Experience told rock the weight behind such an act. "You don't fuck with the Russians, but John Wick fucked, shat, and spat on the dude without a care."

"Not that bad, but it was probably like that for the cold soldier's honor." Dutch corrected from his desk. "All I know is he took a Russian down with his own fighting style, then capped him twice for insurance."

For an American to beat a Russian officer like that… he must have been extremely well-trained.

"Point is Rock, Sis decided pissing him off would be a worst case scenario for the Hotel _and_ the rest of the Mob. She just told me back then to get so good that people would be shitting themselves just talking 'bout me…" She grit her teeth harder with the words, pushing off the wall.

Rock stood slowly, waiting for something to break. The tension was too thick for him to make a move without a mistake.

"John Wick is a man of focus. Always has been," Dutch spoke again. Now Rock could see the smoke billowing above him. "Babayaga, the Boogeyman, the one guy you don't want to give a reason to kill you. If he's runnin' from something, I don't want it tearin' into the Lagoon Company."

And there was the spark of wisdom Rock had almost missed. John Wick was running from something, and Dutch was smart enough not to get involved. They were friends, but business was always superior to friends or family.

It tended to last longer, as history had told.

"Kay, Rock, you," Revy spoke up again, waving her guns at him like they were a pointed. He didn't move for fear she'd accidentally fire. "You and I are going to get so shit-faced tonight that I'm gonna wake up tomorrow feeling like a took the bad end of a gang-bang, got it?"

He did not get it, nor did he want to.

"You two do that," Dutch spoke up. Rock spun to see him, but his superior was not facing him. His chair was positioned at the window, staring out into the bay down the road, hardly a view worth paying for.

He twisted his head to look at the pair, pointing at them before he spoke on.

"Try and keep your lips shut about this though. Don't need any more bad luck this month, got it?"

"We got it."

"Yes, sir." Rock and Revy responded side-by-side. He sighed shortly afterwards. Now there was no avoiding going to Yellowflag with Revy tonight. It was a wonder how quickly a good idea could sound like a bad one.

Still, he could only pray the trail of the Boogeyman went cold before it reached their doorstep.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Well, here comes a slower story with more characters. Thought I'd try my hand at "mature" shows/movies, and a cross-over that makes more sense the more I think about it. At least the only question is where in time these take place.

Anyways, please fav and follow if you can. I read every review and appreciate every view!


	2. Guns and Turtlenecks

It was hot and crowded on the Roanapur streets. Such was the norm for cities with more crime than morals. It was what the criminal wanted. It was what assassins liked.

The density made it difficult to give chase. The numbers made it difficult to keep track of others. The volume made it difficult to be heard. All were difficulties that those in the darker parts of the world lavished.

Even John found a comfort in the crowd, a dirty rag over his head and his dog at his side. No one gave him more than a passing glance as he moved through the streets, hardly a soul paying him any mind. It was the most desirable way to travel.

His dog kept pace easily, only occasionally growling as a passerby glanced his side. No one kicked him though, or did him harm. That was okay. Even the citizens in a city of killers knew better than to hurt a man's dog.

But even though John was moving through the town, he was heading outside of it. Not far, but far enough to be free of the comfort of the dense crowd. It was not the most desired place to be, but with his old contact refusing to help, it was the next place to go.

Dutch had even hinted that they could help him, old contacts from one of the oldest organizations in the world. Assassins and thieves ran in kind with places that held deep connections. Though, if he was to be fair, it was hard to call this place of contact representative for others.

After all, even its name was a Rip-off.

"Roof!" John's dog barked as they cleared the densest part of the crowd, more bodies passing him than following him. His eyes trailed his dog as he ran forward, spinning in the street. It made sense.

John was used to crowds. His dog was not.

"Easy boy," he spoke to him, kneeling and stretching out his hand. His dog jogged back up, pushing against his palm. John scratched behind his ears, calming him. "We're close." And they were.

He could already see the steeple of the church, not too high up on the hill.

Kept just apart from the rest of Roanapur that it could be its own state, but it was far and away from uncorrupt. If it was the same as he remembered it, it could even be mistaken for the source of corruption.

But he knew better. A lifetime of experiences told him better.

His feet continued up the dirt path, his dog following diligently. The crowd thinned further and further, until only John and his dog remained. A man in a ruined suit and rags, being followed by a mutt, heading to a church. Very few would give attention to them. It was perfect.

"Rico! The hell do you think you're doin'!?" A woman yelled up the path from him. He stopped, aware how quickly fights escalated in the city below. His dog followed his lead.

"Nothing big sis!" A man's voice, or more likely a boy's, returned. His was not the tone of someone in an argument. "I was just movin' the luggage and I dropped a case. B-But they're all good! I checked!" A simple disagreement then.

"There's nothing good about you scratchin' the goods you limp dick!" It was clear at least who was the dominate voice in the discussion as well. "What'll happen if the Hotel asks for this stuff now? We'll have to discount 'em!"

"B-But they're not broken! Honest!" The boy defended. John continued his walk. Pausing would do little good now. "And I bet I can buff out anything wrong!"

"You'd have ta have the guns of Adonis to buff out steel!" The woman yelled back. "And a noodle arm and toothpick dick like you couldn't beat an egg let alone clean metal!" It was clear the woman was not one who controlled their words.

"Well, yeah, b-but they've got stuff to help with that." And it was equally as clear the boy was either not used to standing up for himself, or simply used to it. Neither appealed to John. But neither affected him.

He was here for the church, not a spat between two individuals.

It took him little time to round the mound in front of the church, stepping up to its central path. The grounds were poorly cared for, as he had remembered them to be. Stone pathways broken by grass and weeds, patches of flowers either blooming or wilting, and the only pair of statues covered in moss.

Little had changed. John took a small comfort in that.

"Hey, hold on, who the hell are you?" The woman he heard before called to him. John turned, seeing her approach.

He was little surprised to see that she was a nun, dressed in the dark garb of the church and habit on her head. An odd pair of glasses sat on the sellion of her nose, purple lensed, gold rimmed, and shaped to look as if she were glaring. It took little imagination to see her doing just that.

John looked past her, seeing the companion she was talking to kneeling on the ground. A pair of cases were at his feet, long and wide. They were likely anti-vehicular armaments. No guns infantry used would fit in a case of that size without risking damage to their parts.

But the boy crouched in front of the cases was looking at John as well. The woman was a nun, but he was a priest, and a young one at that. A cleric collar was wrapped around his neck, the dark robes he wore signifying his position, but on his knees grabbing cargo for the nun was so opposite what he was used to.

He was used to them being on their knees for Russians or Italians, not Sisters.

"Hey, dumb bum!" The nun yelled at him now. John gave her his attention. "The hell are you doing here?!"

John didn't recognize either the priest or the sister. Both were likely too young to have been here when he was last. If they were, they were likely too young to remember his face. It was for the best.

"Hello." He spoke simply, easily. Their attire mattered little, given how he had heard them talk. But he still needed to remain courteous. This was Roanapur.

He watched the sister shake her head, habit flailing with the motion. She had long hair underneath, but no protection. It was a poor decision on her part.

"Hey to you too, now what d'ya want?" The 'sister' asked. She had hands on her hips, fingers flicking at the hem of her dress. John recognized the motion, the preparation for a quick draw.

The nun was armed. The priest likely was as well. He had to use code now.

"I am here to say my prayers." He spoke the words he had said last time to gain entry to the chapel. But he was unaware if the same rules applied. Roanapur was not the Continental. Little survived time.

"Tch, you gotta be kiddin' me?" the nun asked again. She hadn't moved or welcomed him in. The code had failed. "Kneel at your bed if you want to do that shit." That was not good.

John weighed the option of speaking truthfully to gain entry, but quickly threw it away. Unknown faces had unknown connections. Forcing his way through would be even worse. He could not afford to have others recognizing him in any form of scuffle.

"W-Wait! Big Sis!" The priest interjected. He looked at the boy through the rag on his head. "Sister Yolanda said to let any who said that through!" John blinked at the name, calming himself.

So, she was still here.

"I don't care if she did," the nun returned. That was also bad to hear. "I'm not trusting a bum comin' in off the streets." She was dressed like a nun, but her every action was against the cloth's morals.

It surprised John little. Tact was never something Roanapur was hailed for. Only its killers and thieves.

"Please," John continued. Simple and short, nothing that could be misunderstood. "I am only looking to speak with those of faith." It was more code, and that was dangerous.

When the call-sign had already failed, risking more was unlikely to work. But better to risk words than a confrontation with guns. He couldn't afford to leave any more bodies.

"Well then how 'bout you pick up some change, walk to a club, and pay a _fuckin'_ whore to-" The nun's crude remarks were cut short by another.

"All those who wish to hear our words are welcome." An aged voice spoke from the doorway of the chapel. John looked to see another nun standing, her back arched and habit straight.

This nun he recognized, even if there were more wrinkles upon her face. She had the same smile. Gentle, but cold. Welcoming, but unforgiving.

"Sister Yolanda," John spoke the nun's name. Confirmation of associates was always important for business. Calling them by anything else would erode trust.

"That I am," the sister responded, her shoes clicking as she walked the stone path of the church. John did not move, aware the other nun was still eyeing him. Her hand had not left her hip. "But I do not recognize you, my child. Have you heard of me through prayers or actions?"

Had she heard of him through contacts or previous dealings.

"Actions," John returned, the coded messages of the church swiftly returning to mind. "From a decade, when the church was still growing. I have returned to pay respects."

His last job was over ten years ago. He's come back to gain supplies for another.

"There are few who have known the church for so long," Yolanda replied. "Even fewer who return to show their faith. May you bless this old sister of the cloth with your face and name?"

Who are you and where are you from?

The code was easy to distinguish. John was sure the priest and other nun had already figured it out.

But if Yolanda was asking, he could not deny. She was not one you insulted or insisted with, not without higher ground. That was something John knew he did not have.

Carefully, as he had done with Dutch at the Lagoon company, John, pulled the rag from his head, letting the tropical sun shine on his unkempt hair and beard. It was brighter than he would have liked, but he kept his eyes open. Yolanda was old, and she could tell someone from their gaze.

And the grin that split her wrinkled face was all the proof he needed. HE did not smile in return.

"My my," the nun replied much easier than before, tension dissipating for relief. "I guess my karma has come full circle for the devil to return to my doorstep." It was not the name he preferred, in this life or his past.

"Wait, you know this guy?" The other nun asked. Her voice had lost none of its tension. Though the danger was significantly less, now that her superior was here. John scratched his dog's head, earning a pant from the hound. "Who the hell is this bum?"

"A ghost of the past," Yolanda replied easily. John didn't correct her, for she was not wrong. "But for now, Eda, Rico, you two finish with the cargo. I'll talk with our guest inside." She flashed him another grin before turning towards the church. The meaning was obvious.

John took steps behind her, ignoring the nun and priest watching him. They were young, but they weren't foolish. The foolish never lasted long under Yolanda. But there was something else the nun would not stand.

"Boy," he spoke to his dog, earning his attention. "Heel," he spoke simply. Immediately, the dog sat on his haunches, staring up at John with a panting tongue. "Good boy, wait." He then walked into the church, following Yolanda's lead.

He ignored the feeling of returning home. This had never been his home.

* * *

Her heels clicked as she walked inside, the obvious difference from going to the broken stone to the wooden floor of the Rip-off Church. She'd spoken to many customers within and without the walls.

But if she were to pick a place she wished to speak often, Yolanda greatly preferred the interior of the church to the exterior. It had air conditioning.

She turned to watch her guest shut the door to the outside, leaving her and him the only two inside the church's tall hall. He had some confidence to act within her cathedral without her permission. Then again, she didn't need to ask to know.

John Wick was always a confident one, if a bit quiet about it.

"It has been sometime, John," Yolanda spoke to the poorly dressed man. "And I believe the years have been kinder to me than you."

"It looks that way," he replied evenly, head nodding slightly with his words. "I'm looking for a boat." Yolanda chuckled before she responded. Straight to business.

This was most assuredly John Wick. No one else would go right to business so quickly, let alone in Roanapur. It was comforting almost, talking to a true professional from seemingly a lifetime ago.

"It looks to me like you need more than just a boat," she replied, pointing at his scarred suit and stained rag. In another other city, he would have attracted more than a stray eye. "But this isn't a good place to chat. Let's talk in the conference room. Always hard to talk straight with the big guy's eyes on you."

She motioned towards the statue of Jesus, hanging at the front of the church. In honesty, she couldn't remember the last time anyone seriously prayed to it. It was no different than the Buddha statue, a motionless thing with only meaning in name.

The piercing eyes did a lot to new customers though, usually adding an extra thousand for services rendered. Sins always did come with a high bounty.

Yolanda opened the double doors to the church's side-office, walking and moving from wooden flooring to smooth carpeting. She far preferred that, too. Kept her voice from echoing.

The room was more inviting than an empty church with wooden pews. Customers preferred to talk on comfortable couches with a cup of tea. It also helped to have a few of the city from the side windows, something to stare at while contracts were being signed and money exchanged. A pleasant distraction as it were.

They always preferred to relax when exchanging money. Decades in the trade had made that fact abundantly clear to Yolanda.

She was hoping the same could work for her guest.

"Now, John," Yolanda started, walking over to the sink as she spoke. She wanted some tea. "What has happened to you that you've come back to this god-lost city, eh?" She looked over at him with her good eye, grinning to show off her missing tooth.

He didn't give even the slightest sign of discomfort, the same stubbly beard hiding the same creased lips all under the same dull eyes. That was Babayaga all right, the same man who bought guns, bullets, and loyalty from her. Though only one of those needed coin.

"Oh deary, can't you entertain an old woman's curiosity?" Yolanda teased, chuckling before the turned back to the sink. The pot was full. "I'm not about to let you walk out of here without a proper conversation. Lord knows I don't get many with those two yelling all day." She placed the pot on a burner, turning the heat on.

Silence was her return still, as she expected it to be. John was the only customer she'd had who didn't have a bark to match his bite. It was refreshing, even after all the years, what with dealing with just the opposite on a daily basis.

"A lot has happened," he spoke simply in return. It was two words more than she expected. It made her grin as she turned to him. She had to wait for the water to boil.

"I can tell," she replied. "I never thought I'd see you walking up to my church again, not after you knocked out that rouge Russian some years ago. How many years was that now?" It was a pointless question, but those questions killed time.

"Twelve years," John replied quickly. His lips were the only thing that moved. His posture was a stiff and prepared as ever, ready to move at a moment's notice. She expected nothing less from the man.

"Well, I'm sure in twelve years you have more than a few stories you can share with me." Yolanda pushed on. She really did want to hear about his life. Most of the friends she had either didn't want to talk or couldn't talk any more.

John looked away from her, eyes moving towards the blinded windows. Yolanda followed his gaze after a moment, letting her good eye drag over the man.

The city was just visible through the screens. The square rooftops leading to the watery horizon of the ocean. The sun sat above the far away waves, easily the brightest thing had to offer. Ironic, considering how it was shared with the rest of the world.

Yolanda let the silence sit in the room, the sound she knew John enjoyed the most. She had seen nothing to indicate otherwise. It was one she also rather enjoyed, as she'd had had the pleasure of a conversation without shouting or guns in quite sometime.

 ** _VREEEEEEEEEEEEEEWWW_**

Yolanda clicked her tongue as the tea pot began to whistle. She caught John turning towards the sound before she did the same. Her wrinkled hand carefully removed the pot from the burner, silencing the steam in a moment.

"There hasn't been a lot of change here since you left," Yolanda started. She knew better than to wait for him to speak first. "The Russians are still balancing power with the Triads. The police still turn a blind eye. And the church still prospers by offering its blessings for those ask for it."

Her hands carefully poured the boiling water into a pair of cups, tea bags already sitting in them. There were always at least two out and prepared, for customers that came at unannounced times. Business habits from over a lifetime.

"But I imagine the same can't be said for you," she went on, not looking toward John as she poured the boiling water. "A man of your talents usually never leaves a place the same. You either change something, or you change yourself." She spoke from experience.

The tea bags rose in the small cups, puffing out as the steam from the water filled them. They were beginning to steep. She nodded towards them, placing the pot down before lifting the cups and turning back to John.

He had hardly moved an inch, still staring out the window.

"John Wick," Yolanda spoke his name, earning his cold eyes. "I understand you're not one to relax as readily as every other killer out there, but you don't need to put up these walls around me." Yolanda let the words hang as she walked towards the room.

John watched her as she sat down on one of the rooms couches. Soft, furred, and every bit as comfortable as it was enticing. She let out a simple sigh as she let the padding take her shape. She leaned forward to place one of the cups of tea on the table.

"I'm old enough to be wise, and I can tell you're running from something." His eyes narrowed at her, but Yolanda simply shrugged. John Wick was a terrifying man, but she was already on her final days. "Don't worry yourself. No one would attack the church, and they'd be right fools to think about waiting for you outside."

Eda and Rico would tear about anyone who tried to do such. The memories of the American snobs was fresh in her mind. It brought a warm smile to her lips.

"So please John, sit and talk with me," Yolanda motioned towards the couch opposite of her. His eyes followed it, staring at the padded furniture.

But he was still hesitating. Yolanda rolled her eyes. She just got why he was so nervous.

"Come now John," Yolanda spoke to his caution, already knowing where the skilled assassin's mind was going. "You know my policy. The only thing the church sells are guns for profit. I don't do bounty hunting."

After all, It would be bad for business if the business didn't come to them.

This time, a slow sigh left the man's lips. She watched his body relax, if only a hair. He turned and bent, sitting down on the couch with a dull _thump_. With stiff motions, he reached out and took the tea she had offered him, lifting it up. He didn't drink any of it.

"Heh, progress," Yolanda joked, grinning until her missing tooth showed. John only blew a breath of air from his nose in response. "Maybe I'll get a story out of you yet." John only sighed in response, breathing through his nose.

Yolanda looked away from him, shutting her eyes to enjoy the tea. It was a bit bland, brewed too quickly and hardly given enough time to steep. But it was better than the simple water, and now was not the time to drink alcohol.

"So, John," Yolanda began again. "Why have you come back to this little piece of hell on Earth?" Yolanda swirled her tea a she looked back up at John. He was staring at his, leaning over it now. He was at least far more relaxed than a few minutes ago, though still very different from actually relaxed.

He didn't respond again, simply staring at the tea in his hands, trashed suit clinging to his body and likely ruining the couch. The silence was nice, but it was hard to have a conversation without words.

This time, however, she let the silent sit. Customers were often pressing for conversation about pricing, and she would silently wait for them to realize their folly. John had come to her asking for a boat. If he wanted a response, he'd have to tell her why.

And John Wick was no fool.

"I met a woman. Her name was Helen."

Yolanda blinked with her good eye. That was not what she expected to hear from a man who killed for profit.

"Helen," Yolanda repeated, letting the name linger on her tongue. It was not a name she was familiar with, but it was one she knew. "The Shining Light in Greek. A woman who's very being started a war of nations."

John did not look at her as she spoke. He only continued to stare at the tea in his hand, spinning it in slow circles. Yolanda took a slow sip of her own, letting the hot liquid soothe her throat. She had done a lot of speaking thus far.

"She must have been an amazing woman," Yolanda spoke on. "Being able to make you fall in love with her." She did not bother to ask where she was.

She was old, and she could see no life where John would leave a woman he had fallen in loved to return to a city like Roanapur. It was simply too out of character for Babayaga.

That, and he was dressed as if he were thrown from the ocean.

"She was," John spoke again, nodding his head at her words. He raised the cup of tea to his lips, tilting his head back to let the liquid quickly drain.

Yolanda sipped a little more of her tea as she watched John drink his own like a shot of Tequila. Or perhaps a better metaphor would be Vodka. It was the drink of his preferred clients.

"Until the cancer took her." Yolanda sighed at his dull words. She didn't mistake John's simplicity with apathy. She had known him for too long.

"Oh John, I'm sorry to hear that," she replied honestly, settling her tea cup in her lap, held up by her hands. "That's not something you deserved."

"No," John countered, shaking his head. Yolanda watched him carefully. "I deserved it. _She_ didn't." And now she sighed. More truth from the mouth of the Boogeyman.

Honestly, the worst killer in Roanapur was the most honest.

"Maybe, John, but my sympathies still stand," she returned what she offered. "I can assume she was a woman worthy of her name, because I haven't heard or seen lick of you in well over a decade." She slowly sipped her tea, already near the bottom of her glass.

"She was, but bad things happened." And not a word of explanation followed. Yolanda was no fool herself, and she knew John would offer nothing with compensation in return.

"I can guess things happened, but how bad is that?" Yolanda watched as John Wick looked back up at her, brows knit and cold eyes watching her. That answered her question readily enough. "I don't see you coming back her in rags unless something catastrophic did happen."

" _Several_ bad things happened," Jack clarified, at least as far as Yolanda was used to him doing. It answered more for her than it would most others. And it was also just enough. "I did some of them."

"I hope you're not about to tell me you did them out of grief." She was being honest. John was a man of focus. He did not act out of spite, greed, or any other form of impulse.

"Retribution," John spoke simply. Yolanda nodded slowly with the word. That was what she could expect of Babayaga. She could only say a silent prayer for the soul that had insulted the man before her. "Against several people."

"Don't tell me who." It was perhaps the first time Yolanda had uttered those words intentionally.

Normally, almost like a guarantee, the more information she gained the better her business did. She knew who to sell her guns to, because of who was preparing for war. She knew who to keep her guns from, because she didn't sell to a losing side. And she knew what to say in front of Eda, to placate her bosses across the world.

But anything John Wick had to say about retribution would only make her target.

She was not about to be killed for knowing too much. She was too old for that.

"But if you're here now, you're not looking for retribution anymore," Yolanda spoke on, already assuming what she knew to be fact. "You're getting away from the consequences, aren't you?"

John looked up at her again, eyes cold and thin mouth drawn. Always the man to speak with actions over words. And Yolanda could tell she was right by his eyes alone.

"John, I'm not one to judge, especially here." Yolanda explained, an easy smile on her aged features "This is Roanapur, the city of thieves and killers. Half the population came her to escape their mistakes, and the rest are here to make them pay."

Perhaps a bit of an over-exaggeration, but not by a large degree. The honest men in Roanapur were as common as the pure women. As easy to find as a trustworthy killer.

"It's something like that," John admitted again. Yolanda grinned, her experience playing well for her. "But that's why I need a boat." And business was always at the front of Wick's mind.

"So I've heard," Yolanda spoke. "But why come to me? Wouldn't Dutch be a better person to talk to? He is still in town." He was one of the few who knew John Wick as more than a name. One of the even fewer who would not turn on him, cheaply at least.

"He told me to say my prayers." John spoke the words without a trace of humor.

Yolanda cackled at the statement.

"That he would, _that_ he would," Yolanda emphasized. To think Dutch would help even John out of the kindness of his heart was something God on high would laugh at. "And I suppose he gave you a good reason for not helping you more?"

More silence was the return from Babayaga. More silence and a return to gazing at the cup in his hand, now empty of any liquid. A pity Eda was not here, she could have refilled it. But Yolanda would not trust the American with this conversation.

Not without compensation she knew she couldn't give.

But as her humor for John's words fell, she took a better look at her old friend, an assassin that would speak to you as a friend without money or gold. One of the few who moved through Roanapur without trying to settle debts, gain fame, or earn riches.

She looked at John Wick, and she saw the man who had been killing for nearly as long as she had been selling.

It was not a relaxing job, on either end. And it brought an odd realization to the sister's mind.

"Perhaps you are… tired," Yolanda finally reasoned. She felt younger for not realizing it, because the young were foolish. She old, and John was as well. No one stayed young forever.

He was a man who had not worked for ten years, had been chased from a place he likely called home, and now was in her chapel asking for a means to leave the city, which was the likely assumption for a boat.

Even the young would be out of breath, so for one as old as John and herself, tired was a very understandable state. However, it changed little.

Business was business, and it was never good to stretch it out, even with old friends.

"I don't have a boat I can give or your sell you John," Yolanda admitted finally.

She saw John's eyes narrow, but she didn't flinch. He was a dangerous man, but he was far from quick to anger. It would take far more than simple bad news to do that.

"It's as I said. The church only sells guns for profit. If we offered anymore, Chang or Balalaika would be at the cathedral's doors within the hour." No common criminal or small group was a problem, but only fools of the foolish wronged the cartels.

John didn't move, but Yolanda cared little. He knew it was the truth. Of any of the words you could hope to insult John Wick with, foolish was not one of them. It would be the same as calling Balalaika cowardly.

"But, I'm not one to leave any debt unpaid," Yolanda continued, setting her tea cup down and standing from the couch. "And for you to come and entertain an old woman like me deserves some kind of reward."

Yolanda had an idea. She had the idea in her mind the moment John Wick showed his face, and she was not one to let good ideas go to waste, especially not when they guaranteed the favor of the devil's right hand man.

John said nothing, even as he rose from the couch to follow her. They didn't need to walk far. What she needed was always close by. It had to be.

A trump card didn't have any use if it was hard to play.

Yolanda pulled open a nearby closet door, pushing aside the habits and cloths that hung within. She pulled out the AK-47's and spare ammo clips that hung further within. They were nice, but they were far from what she was looking for.

When all the armaments and clothing was move, Yolanda saw the familiar keypad along the interior wall. It was dusty, decrepit even, with the once soft number pads feeling harder than stone. But a single touch had them come to life.

Her wrinkled lips smirked as she remembered the passcode, one that was bore into her memory just as deeply as the deeds of John Wick.

 **1-9-6-9 BEEEP**

With a quick whine, the vault opened. Yolanda had to hold up a hand to keep the dust off of her face. It was minor at least. The heavy door inside pulled away with much less resistance than one would think, but it was hardly a concern for the nun. She only cared for the contents of the safe.

Her creased hands reached into the small vault, grabbing at plastic that crumpled under her grasp. She couldn't help nor tried to hide the satisfied grin that pulled at her lips.

Stepping back, out she pulled a vacuum-pressed black suit.

Even with only one good eye, Yolanda caught the surprised look on John's face. It was worthy everything till not to see it.

"Surprised?" She asked needlessly, teasingly. "You asked for an extra during your last job, said you come to collect it when you needed it."

John still didn't say a thing. Yolanda watched with old eyes as John stared down at the suit with his own cold gaze. Whatever he was expecting of her, this clearly wasn't it. It was a rare gift to be able to surprise her customers with _good_ news.

When it came to John Wick, it was always about the impossible.

His hands reached up to grab the plastic seal of the suit, his crusted and ruined suit a harsh contrast with the pristine fabric in the packaging. Yolanda knew he'd accept it. What kind of man turned away from a suit?

"Why?" John asked simply. Yolanda shrugged, never losing the smirk on her lips.

"I don't throw away top-dollar merchandise, John," Yolanda grinned as she spoke, happy to see the cold assassin confused by her choice. "Tactical threading, titanium laced fibers, and ceramic matrixes placed in all the vital locations. Bullet proof prepared, but not pain proof. Call it a karma shield if you want."

"Why?" He asked again, this time gently pulling the suit from Yolanda's hands. She relinquished it without a fight. She didn't need one.

"Because you may not die from getting shot, but it'll still hurt like hell." She chuckled at her own joke, already knowing the truth of the statement.

John, to her expectations, said not a word in response. He only nodded his head as he continued to flip the dark suit in his hand, thumb running along the plastic as if to trace the seams. That would be difficult without opening the bag.

Then again, this was the man who killed a Russian Spetznaz with his own knife. Impossible was his signature, like Dutch and his glasses.

"It's not the best the world has to offer, but you'll be out of luck looking for a better deal in Roanapur." John turned the suit over and back in his hand, showing off to Yolanda the numerous wounds to his current suit. They told a story a child could understand. "Then again, it doesn't look like you have much luck left now."

"No." The word came out in agreement. He stopped playing with the suit, looking back up at her eyes. His expression had shifted, if only by a hair. A look of curiosity in his gaze.

It was far better than the cold look he always offered.

"May I try this on?" He asked politely, as he did all things. Yolanda couldn't say no to kind words from a deadly man, especially one she was alone with.

"Of course," Yolanda offered. It was her plan after all. "You can use the spare room through that door."

It was Eda's room. A soft guarantee that nothing in there was of value. John Wick was an old friend and trustworthy man, but you didn't risk merchandise because of so simple reasons.

He nodded once before heading towards the door, disappearing behind it without a word.

He returned just after Yolanda had finished cleaning the pot and cups. She leaned back to appraise the man wearing his new suit.

It fit as well as it did in her memories.

The sleek black material framing his body, the nape of the dark shirt wrapping around his neck like a cleric's collar, and the slim tie hanging from him. Even as he adjusted the cuff links to his sleeve, twisting the thin round metal stays, it was a look that truly was John Wick.

A two-button suit with a dark undershirt. Non-em braided cuff links doubled on each side. A simple innocuous lapel pin on the breast of his overcoat. And black laces on equally colored shoes. They call clung to his body perfectly.

But as fine as the suit was, no amount of clothing could groom a gnarly man and stubbly beard like his. It was likely for the best though, as she could not imagine John Wick well-groomed or even smiling. A shower would not hurt, however.

A part of Yolanda realized he'd likely roast in Roanapur, but she knew John was not a man to care. A man as cold as him was hardly to be bothered by something as simple as temperature. He didn't some ten years ago and he certainly wouldn't now.

Yolanda's attention moved from reminiscent to observing when she saw John fish into his pockets, pulling and producing a pair of objects she had not seen in some time.

A pair of gold coins.

Two gold coins were held in front of her, gold coins she hadn't seen in quiet some time. Her eyes were old and losing sight, but she could still see the shine to the small rings, the value in their existence.

She shook her head at them.

"I usually prefer money for paying back debts, but I'd be hard pressed to find a man who said John Wick's word wasn't worth gold." Yolanda watched John as she spoke. "And besides, I believe you've already paid for this in full, even if you are late to collect."

John held the coins out for only a moment longer, slowly pocketing them again with her words. Yolanda grinned, good eye focused on the well-dressed man. Well-dressed but still facially unkempt.

"It would be bad practice to double charge you. You aren't a man anyone wants to cross, John Wick." And again, not a word came from the man.

But it would take a pair of blind eyes to miss the acknowledgement that flashed across John's own.

"Thank you," John spoke now, words that that made Yolanda nod her head in acceptance.

"Of course, John," she replied verbally. "You were a good customer the few times you came here before. And Roanapur isn't a city where the disloyal can survive." Lone wolves never lasted. Everyone needed connections.

Even contract killers with body counts worthy of war.

And as she expected, John only nodded in response. His breathing was slow, controlled, and focused. Of course it was focused. He would not be John Wick if he were anything else. Yolanda watched as his eyes flashed to the room he came out of. She deduced why quickly.

"I'll take care of the suit, free of charge," Yolanda emphasized. "It doesn't cost much to burn clothing, and we have to dispose of paper trials soon anyways." Paper trails that lead out of Roanapur were never a good thing.

"No," was John's response. Yolanda blinked her good eye, unsure what he meant by the word. He was not a foolish enough to be sentimental for torn clothing. But she could think of no other reason for not burning his clothes. "I need to cover my face."

Unless the clothing wasn't the issue at all.

"Ah," Yolanda let out, nodding her head. _That_ made sense.

John's face may have been an unknown to the young bloods of Roanapur, and the uninformed veterans, but anyone well connected or clever enough would be able to recognize him on sight alone. That would ruin his chances to flee his consequences.

What a pity for John Wick, having to hide his face in a city of thieves.

"It is not as well tailored," Yolanda let out, turning away from John and approaching an old coat rack. "But I do believe I have something that may assist you in that regard." She shifted a few of the light jackets and odd apparel around, searching for the object she desired. It did not take long.

Her wrinkled hand grasped and held up a dark brown fedora. It was an ugly thing.

Hideous was honestly the proper word, but Rico had bought it in Roanapur on a whim and Yolanda had confiscated it quickly. It didn't go well with anything, let alone a man as handsome and well dressed as John Wick. But it would do what he needed it to.

Hide his hair and eyes from the curious and bored.

"Here," Yolanda offered the apparel to John. He took it without hesitation, but twisted his brows as he examined it. "It's not pretty, but a hat's gonna get a lot less attention with that suit than a dirty rag over your head."

Because if you wore a dirty rag over a nice suit, the bold would try and tear it off. A hat with a nice suit would only get you snide looks. Yolanda was well aware John could handle the later.

"… Thanks," came the much more subdued reply. She was unoffended by the hesitation.

He placed the hat over his head, hand creasing at his unkempt hair. He folded the dark curls under the brim of the brown fabric, making his hair appear a lot shorter than it normally was. When he was done, it hid his cold under a soft shadow.

Yolanda was right though, it looked atrocious on him. But it was far preferred to a dirty old rag. She shrugged, nodding her head towards him.

Another nod was his return. Words were like bullets for John Wick. Used only when they were necessary. He dropped his arms, wrists adjusted and shirt set. His head turned towards the door the small conference room. The meaning was clear to the old sister.

"Well, I suppose every beginning does have an ending." Yolanda spoke one of the few truths from a book of lies. There were conveniences to be had. "I'm not foolish enough to try and get in your way."

"Thanks," he replied even shorter than before, heading nodding towards her again. Yolanda chuckled. His short words, polite and focused, were far preferred to the girl's cussing or the boy's submissive whining.

Ah, the benefits of speaking to a true man.

"I can't help with a boat," Yolanda emphasized again. "But when the nights come to Roanapur, the sailors come home to drink." She didn't need to explain any more to a man of his talents.

"Where?" Was the simple question. Yolanda shrugged as she opened the door to the chapel. Their voices echoed as they entered.

"Yellowflag is a fair first bet," she replied simply. "More booze than hookers, so that means more pliant men to talk to." And of the many tools she knew the man to employ, women were not among them.

A shame, because young women often made the best bargaining chips.

Their shoes clicked and echoed across the wood of the chapel, John walking beside Yolanda. She had no issue with the position, far preferring being side-by-side with Babayaga then with her back to him. He was polite, not harmless. He killed with a purpose, but she knew that one who killed long enough made it easier to find excuses to continue to do so.

Speaking of.

"I never did get the name of your companion outside," Yolanda brought up as she grasped the doors to the Chapel's exterior. "What is it?"

"Doesn't have one." The brow of her good eye rose. Now that was an oddity even for a man like him.

"No name," she restated, sure that perhaps the dog's name was simply close to the words. Yolanda could think of not a single name that was closer to the two words.

"No." And a shake of John's head confirmed it. She only sighed as she shook her own. Of the many questions she had and answers she'd enjoy to hear, that was far from one she'd press for.

"I see…" Yolanda stretched out. Truly, she did not, but neither she or John enjoyed empty conversations. "Well, I hope you pick a fine name when you do decide to name him." She clicked the handles and opened the door, letting light pour into the chapel.

The familiar heat of Roanapur's air hit her, harder with the dark fabric she wore. John likely was beginning to roast in his dark suit and hat. But that was for him to worry about, not her.

Her worry were the children that worked for her.

"Get off me mutt!" She heard Eda yell, catching a glimpse of the nun push the dog away from her. She sighed, thankful only in that pushing the dog was the worst the girl had done. The dog barked and ran away from her, tongue flailing out of his mouth.

God help the soul of any fool that harmed something John Wick cared for, especially his dog.

"Here boy! Here!" Rico did the opposite of Eda, kneeling down and letting the dog run up to him. The canine bounced into him, forcing the little priest to bend his neck back. The dog eagerly licked at his face.

Yolanda crossed her arms, watching the children deal with the nameless pup. It was entertaining for every reason a normal woman would say was horrifying.

"Here boy," John spoke, not called, in a voice no different that one he had spoken to her with. It was hardly something one would call authoritative.

 **Woof!**

But it was enough for his dog.

The mutt jumped off Rico and bounded towards them, obviously far preferring John to Yolanda. The nun watched as the canine slowed on approaching, stopping at John's fit with heavy pants. He scratched at the canine's ears.

"Good boy," he spoke as simply and monotone as before. The dog didn't do much different.

"Well shit, guess it's true what they say." Yolanda saw Eda approaching them, her own arms crossed over her chest and gaze likely narrowed behind her pink lenses. "Put a suit on anything and it'll look good."

"Not now, Eda," Yolanda cajoled the 'sister' lightly. The actual punishment would come later, likely by having her due inventory of the heavy armaments.

John stood to his tallest again at her words, facing the nun an expensive suit, thin mouth, and a horrible hat. It was better than the worn state that he had come to her with.

"I wish you luck and the lord's blessings with your future John." She meant half of what she said.

"Thank you," John bowed lightly with his words, more of another nod of his head than anything else. Yolanda did the same in kind.

Without a further word, John turned and began the trek back to Roanapur, dog by his side and dark suit over his frame. It didn't take long for his footsteps to tapper out, leaving only his retreating form to watch.

That was when Eda decided to speak again.

"Okay, no bullshitting, who was that guy?" Eda asked from her side. Yolanda didn't offer the young woman her gaze. She wanted to watch John leave this time. Chances are she wouldn't be given another. "Forget him just being a bum and on your good side, you gave him that funeral suit and even wished him luck. That shits only for Balalaika when she's buyin' big. What gives?"

Yolanda sighed deeply as she watched John move out of sight, the nameless dog trailing after him. The city swallowed him up the same way it did all good men, killers or not. She would be a fool to not remember a man like John Wick.

And Eda was a fool for not realizing that.

"That was an old friend coming to visit," Yolanda answered without turning towards her 'sister'. It helped with ignoring any annoyed expression the young girl gave her. "It's a good idea to give gifts to your allies, especially in this kind of world."

For nowhere else was it so easy to earn the favor of the boogeyman.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** I make no promises for when the next chapter will come out. I'm being over burdened with many things. And while I know the disappointment of having to wait weeks for a few thousand words, you can feel free to read my other stories, which will likely update in between.

For the story, here's hoping I kept John in character. It was Yolanda I had the most trouble with, because she's shown just enough to get her character, but not enough to know how she'd treat an actual old friend. She does seem like the kind of person to hold onto merchandise and buy favors with things that aren't cash though.

But Eda's a bitch and Rico is stupid. No doubts about that.


	3. Chop Shop

The day was turning to night as he continued to move through the streets of Roanapur. There were many things on the street, none of them that he needed. New clothes to wear, advertisements for entertainment, darkly dressed and conspicuous sources of information, and heralds for transportation.

He needed only a bar, and a bar by a specific name. It was not something he could ask someone he did not know about. He had gained the information from an old friend, and it would take only a wise leader to know where he was from a single slip of his lips.

So John walked, using the shoes made near a decade ago born for the first time since. Shoes that were as black as his pants, undershirt, and coat he wore. It was a good color, a dark color, normal and comfortable to wear, familiar even.

A comfortable and familiar suit on his back, but an odd and cumbersome hat on his head. He disliked the hat, though not greatly. It was just a hat. A hat that was a tool. All tools had a purpose, and the hat had its own.

He would not be recognized in his hat, much like the charlatans who masks to plays or jobs. The hat had a purpose, and so it stayed.

But he was having difficulty fulling his purpose. He did not recognize the name that Yolanda had given him. It was a newer bar then, likely funded to extort or entrap participants in the bar. That was common in most places. But this was Roanapur, so the obvious was not common.

No, it would be more common for it to be a hub of sorts, the replacement to the Continental that had never formed. The failure to form was the result of the lawlessness of the town, for the desire, not necessity to kill and steal.

A place had to replace it, because no city of thieves would be free of a place for them to eat. Thieves were not killers, killers were not opportunists. He was a killer, evil, but he was no thief. He never had been. He never could be.

Thieves had no focus.

And so he looked down the streets, past the people that lined the roads and side-walks, reading the banners that hung over buildings. Too many unfamiliar names, in a town that was no longer the same. There was no stability, no constant in the town, at least no constant that was not dependent on cooperation.

A city that nurtured from thievery and greed changed too often to be manageable or well-read. It was not the clean the streets of New York, nor the traditional and constant roads of Rome. They were changing as frequently as the whims of the thieves who walked it. No order, no control.

The lack of order led to a lack of unity. A lack of unity led to an inability to grow. The only constant was greed. But greed did not grow. It belonged only to the undisciplined.

The Continentals had focus, balance, restraint. Tools, rules, and requirements to operate. Rules that punished with death. Death was a deterrent to the trained killers, usually. It usually was not to the unprepared or ill-minded.

Roanapur was never a city of sound minded people. It was why it was a wary place to hide.

So John needed to find Yellowflag. The sooner he found the bar, the sooner his chances were for leaving the city, on a boat that would not be tracked by the Organization or eager killers. But the longer in Roanapur, the more likely ill fate was to befall him.

 ** _Woof!_** He turned to his companion, walking dutifully at his side. His dog hat a tongue out, his very presence keeping most of the idle hands at bay. Thieves feared animals, animals that were loyal and trustworthy. It was natural, to be afraid of something faster and instinctual, that would bite on order and tear if asked.

It was why he was valuable before.

John placed his hand on his dog's head, having the boy look up at him with an expectant gaze. Drool collected and fell from his tongue, bobbing as his mouth panted. It had taken John two nights and three days to recognize the look of hunger in an animal.

"Hungry?" He asked, grabbing and scratching at his dog's head. He swallowed his tongue, tilting his neck to move into his embrace. It was common for animals to desire adoration, and John gave what he could. But he could not give food, not in the moment.

He had no food, and they had to move. Food would come after they finished their objective. Simple, and simple was easy. They only needed to find the bar.

"Ya hungry, ofay?" John tilted his head at the voice, louder than the minor crowd around him. It was clearer a call for him. He recognized the voice. It was not one he wished to see or hear. He was only a distraction, never anything more.

"Hello," John replied neutrally, controlled. The less he spoke, the less he had to do. Nothing was optimal, but not minimal. Minimal was goodbye.

"And hey ta you potluck," the man responded again, taking large strides over to John. He balanced a night-stick on his shoulder, a lop-sided and unclean grin on his features. The suit he wore was adorned with medals John recognized, but was sure the man had not earned.

The people in the street cleared as the man approached, burying themselves into buildings and alleys like mice scared of an approaching rat.

It was difficult to describe the reaction to the corrupt police officer in any other way.

"So, what's a well-dressed, seppo like you doin' in this part a'town?" John kept his hand on his dog's head as the man approached. His dog was loyal and could sense undeserved superiority. He would growl. If he growled at the officer, it would cause trouble. "Can ya answer me?"

"Walking," John replied simply. An honest answer, but broad. He would not be satisfied with it. He knew the officer well, though officer was likely no longer his title, not after a decade had passed.

"Glad ya can do that. But it still ain't tellin' me where ya are walkin' to." He raised and lowered the night-stick on his shoulder, showing its weight, its dexterity. John was familiar with the tool. Designed for submissive blows, but non-lethal, not unless lethal was intended.

It was difficult to tell with Officer Watsup.

"A bar, if I can find one." John phrased his words carefully. Words were tools he was offering. He had to leave, to make the corrupt officer leave. But leaving with information would be even better.

"Hmm, that's funny," the officer replied, framing his grin with a burly hand on his chin. John kept his own neutral, eyes forward and forehead covered by the ill-matched and uncomfortable hat. "Cause fer someone like ya to be lookin' in this part a town for a bar, it'd mean one of two things."

John had erred, apparently. That was clear now. He had to develop options to leave before the situation became unsustainable. If that occurred, there would be violence. He wouldn't lose if there was.

"One, yer lookin' for a bar that's just a bar on the side." He was implying illegal activities, or illegal by the Taiwanese government. It was difficult to image the officer truly enforcing such things, outside of compensation from someone. "Or two, yer lookin' for someone _in_ the bar. Am I close?" If Watsup had accepted compensation for arresting John, then that meant someone knew who he was, and what he was worth.

"No," John replied easily to the officer again, ignoring his look of disgust. It was exaggerated, painfully exaggerated, but that was all it was. "Excuse me." John patted his dog's head as he turned, pulling the brim of his hat down.

"Hey now, I never said ya could go," the officer spoke again. John stilled, sure that there was a gun pointing at him. Not visible, concealed, but present. He could feel it, instincts telling him it was too likely to ignore. "Yer activities are _way_ past suspicious, and I'm not doin' my due diligence if I don't check ya out." John narrowed his gaze.

Perhaps the officer hadn't recognized him, at least not as John Wick. Maybe he saw him as a clear foreigner to the city of thieves, someone different enough, outside enough, to exploit. It was a common tactic of the thief to attack those few in number. It was just what Officer Watsup would do.

"Now if we're gonna do this right, why don't ya turn back around and take the hat off your head." John easily did the first, but stopped on the last. Officer Watsup was corrupt, a thief, and recognition of John would do no good. Confirmation of who he was would only mean his paid orders could be fulfilled.

"Hey, ofay, the shit hat." The nightstick in the over-weight officer's hand motioned towards his head. John raised a hand to it, grabbing the top of the material. He was unarmed, save for a few sharp objects. The officer had a gun and other weaponry.

John would need to distract and disarm first, or else risk being shot again. The suit was old, though being freshly worn. He could not be sure it would stop direct fire. The plating in the military was not a sure thing, so decade old bullet threading was not guaranteed.

"Look, seppo, I'm losin' my patience. I got places to be and routes to do." Money to collect. "So hurry it up or I'll just stream line yer arrest." He was already assuming incarceration. That was bad. It meant John had to be prepared.

His hat was all that he had in hand to distract. Reaching for any sharp object on him would be sign for guns to fire. So when Officer Watsup saw him, he'd after to find the gun and throw his hat, quickly. A distraction to reach the officer, then take his side-arm. Then he would have a means to fight.

So, slowly, John removed the dark garb from his head, letting his eyes glower at the reflective frames on Officer Watsup's nose. He watched the police officer narrow his gaze with a furrowed brow, mouth twisting in confusion. There was recognition, but not affirmation.

But when the officer removed his lenses to show off his dark eyes, John was sure the officer recognized him. It also confirmed he hadn't before. More information, but it did not change the required sequence of events to escape.

"Shit on the buddha and fuck the Christ," Watsup's twisted lips returned to the sneering grin John knew him for. "Of all the crackers I thought I'd catch walkin' in this parta' town, I never thought one of 'em would be the devil himself."

"Hello Officer Watsup," John replied again, restating the name and watching the man. He saw no gun, not on him nor on the other officers nearby. But his instincts told him there was a gun, something on him. He wasn't sure what or where. That was dangerous.

"Hello to you John!" The officer replied with much more joy than John expected. He put his glasses back over his dark eyes, pushing his night-stick away as he walked closer. John clenched the hat in his hand, ready to push it now into Watsup's face if need be. That would disorient and block vision. "You shoulda told me you were back in town! I'd have gotten ya VIP ticket!"

That made John pause. There was no intent to harm coming from Watsup. His grin was too broad, arms too relaxed. He was a liar, a good one, but he had tells. John knew the officer's tells. None of them were being shown right now.

"Seriously man," the officer crossed his arms as he stood across from John, shaking his head as he knew an untrained civilian would to an old friend. The parallels were odd to witness, at least to John. "Here I am gettin' ya ready for a long talk at the station, and yer actin' like I'm the biggest threat in this place."

In only the loosest sense of terms was Watsup just that. Not for his abilities, no, far from it. A danger in the same way Santino D'Antonio was dangerous for his connections, not his abilities. Both were men who thought greater of themselves than they deserved.

"If I had tried ta put you in cuffs, I'd have been coughin' up _lead!_ " He laughed at his own words, a bellow in fact. John did not join him, he only watched. He watched Office Watsup, and the officers around him. The sense of a gun was gone. One of them must have been preparing to shoot, but the threat was gone now. Perhaps, but John could not sure.

"But seriously John, fresh outta retirement and yer not gonna give yer old friend a donation?" Watsup slapped his own shoulder as he bellowed with laughter. John did not join him. He had no reason to. "I figured you'd be the first guy ta remember the rules of this place. I still got stories 'bout you that I tell the rookies!" A payoff, John heard that.

A payoff to the corrupt officer to allow an illegal man to walk the streets. A poor replacement for the Continental, but all that was allowed in a city of thieves. No guarantees, only delays for the inevitable.

"How much?" John asked simply. He put his hat back on his head, not willing to let anyone else recognize from a distance. There was no one on the street, but the buildings were not empty. Though Officer Watsup was not silent with his words, let alone subdued.

"Eh, fer you?" Watsup asked as he rubbed his chin with his hand once more, overly drawn grin framed by his meaty fingers. If his lenses were not reflective, John knew there would be greed in his eyes, the same that was carried by every thief in the city. "How 'bout a penny for good luck?" A gold coin then.

John fished in his pocket for the one of the few coins he had. He needed them, as they were the only currency he had to find and pay for a boat. He could not be liberal with them. But failure to pay meant exposure. That was not something he could afford. He could not count on Officer Watsup's good morals.

He produced a gold coin, handing it towards the officer. Watsup took it between his fingers, holding it up to the Roanapur sun. His grin was a bright as the gold, but lacking all of the material's allure.

"Never stops bein' pretty," the Officer mused aloud. "Starin' at solid gold in the sunlight. I'm sure its like a nun lookin' up at the cross. Maybe just a whore her sugar papi. Not much of a difference there." He bellowed another round of laughter, another round John did not sure with him.

John put his hand on his dog's head again, scratching behind his ears. It calmed the boy, keeping him from barking. It was important.

"And it looks like ya got a partner of yer own!" Officer Watsup fell to a crouch, staring at the dog through his thick lenses. "Lookin' pretty good. He got a name?"

"No," John answered simply. He saw Watsup look back up at him, head tilted like his dog when he wasn't fed. The tool look very similar, but one was loyal. The one who was leaning into his hand.

"Ya don't got a name?" Watsup asked. "Weird enough runnin' into ay out on the streets, but now you're towin' around a dog without a label. Figures the weird ones stick together." The officer rose back up, stretching his back for the effort. His weight was doing him no benefit.

John took in a slow breath, humming at the words. There was some gain here. Watsup had not asked for him to follow him, or to remove anything on him. That likely meant there was no one employing the officer, for now. That was good, but it could just as easily change. A single gold coin could easily be out bid.

"So, what're ya doin' town then?" Officer Watsup asked the inevitable question. John was hesitant to tell him. He was not a name he could trust. "C'mon now. I may have loose lips, but I'm careful 'bout sinkin ships." The snort of humour was, once more, not shared with John.

He had to answer the officer though, as a failure to answer would only lead to further questions, which meant suspicion. He could not have a cloud of mystery about him while in the city of Roanapur. It would only invite chaos.

"Looking for a bar, Yellowflag." John answered. It was a truth, a needed truth, but not the whole truth. It was not enough to allow someone to know his true motives. That was enough.

"Heh, so you were serious 'fore." Watsup noted while scratching the back of his head. "Well it's a new-ish bar. Went up maybe a few years after yer last trip here. Figures you wouldn't know where it is." John suspected as much, as he saw little of familiar sights on the streets of Roanapur.

It was as he knew. The city of thieves had only the constant of greed. Nothing lasted when order was replaced with chaos. When rules were thrown away for profit and grief.

"It's a hangout for the perps that count, kinda protected by the Russians and the Triads, in the kinda sense that they wanna place for their lackies ta relax away from home." A bar within the Continental, but lacking the structure or rules. There must be some rules, or else it was a marvel the place was still standing.

"Kinda funny though, considerin' how often that place is blown down and built back up, it's like a brand new buildin' every year!" The officer bellowed a third time, but John merely nodded his head. It was as he expected.

 ** _Woof! Woof!_** John patted his dog's head, ruffling the hair atop it. It got the dog to stop barking, returning to his panting nature. He was still hungry. That was all he was telling John.

"Can tell yer dog is itchin' ta leave at least," Officer Watsup noted. "And I'm not 'bout to keep the boogeyman out in the open fer too long." He chuckled once more, but John did not join him.

He was only fortunate that they would soon be parting.

"Well if yer wonderin' how ta get ta Yellowflag, its two streets down and up the hill," the police captain replied, using his free hand to point down the road he and John stood on. "Road'll take you straight up to the bar, on yer right and half-way up the mound. Can't miss it, cause it's the only workin' place up there. Probably take ya a few hours to get there on foot."

John looked at officer Watsup, studied him. The man was still grinning with a lecherous look, hungry for what John kept in his pocket, and had over his head.

"If ya get there 'fore it gets dark, Bao I'll have somethin' ta fill ya and yer dog up. Maybe." John gave the officer another stare. He must have heard John ask his dog about it before. "If ya miss that, ya can always mosey on over to the precinct. Ain't the greatest place ta stay in Roanapur, but it's got the protection of that fancy hotel of yours that never showed."

Of that, John knew decidedly the officer was wrong. He could kill everyone in the police station and take only a few bullets at worst. If he attempted the same in a Continental, he would be dead in seconds.

He was fortuned to not be dead already.

"Well ya take care John," Officer Watsup noted with a single finger salute, letting it sit on the brim of his tan cap before flicking it off. "Hopin ta see ya sooner than ten years later." He turned and left with another undeserved below of laughter.

John watched him go, ensuring that the corrupt officer was not keeping a man on him. As he continued down the street, the other officers turned and followed him. He could sense no guns or eyes on him, no eyes that were planning his death, at least.

He let out a breath of air through his nose, glad to have the small fortune that Watsup had not threatened him for more than he gave. Perhaps he had if he were anyone else, but the ideas did not matter. He had not, and because he had not, John had no reason to worry.

Instead, he only needed to find the Yellowflag. And now, he had directions.

"Let's go boy." His dog followed in step behind him, the streets more barren than before.

John could only hope they stayed that way.

* * *

Dutch rubbed at the top of his forehead, massaging the skin that sat above the heavy bone. Wasn't just the bone that felt heavy, though. The brain inside of it felt like it was carrying more than just the good of his company on it.

It wouldn't need Rock's good senses to figure out just what either. Even Revy, hyped on the drug of the month and enough vodka to kill a Russian, could at least get close to what was bothering him.

John Wick. The mother-fucking John Wick.

Dutch dealt with killers on a daily basis. It was par for the course in the city of Roanapur. Killers who killed for fun, profit, fame, and everything in between. Killers that used guns, knives, bombs, rockets, and even cars if it was possible. Killers that were military trained, self-taught, or even mentored. He'd seen and talked to them all. Too many years doing too much business in the bad part of the world.

But John wasn't like any of them. He was something far more, and just the same, far less.

He killed for money, but only who he had to. He spoke little, but always said what counted. He did what he had to do whenever he had to, and never a single step more.

Dutch could recall the times he worked with John on one hand, coming into the city for work from the States or the Russian Motherland. Taking him on tours to the darker parts of Thailand, areas where those who wanted to hide made home. John always entered and left alone, carrying only what he had to and never asking for more than he needed.

So, dressed in a suit, tie, and shirt of black, he would walk into areas that were meant to be standing graves.

He'd walk out with a few missing bullets and usually some item of importance. And he'd never talk about what he did. That was what made John dangerous to Dutch.

Every killer he knew, from as low as the disposables at the Yellowflag to the Hotel Moscow and Triad bosses, they all loved to talk. They loved to talk, brag, and detail how they did what they did to get to where they were. Some were clever than others, Dutch knew that, but they all talked.

Balalaika would never talk about where her guns came from or how her money was handled, but she'd detail how she got a man to confess to a shipping container's location with a grin on her face. Mr. Chang would sooner blow out his crew than spill on where his funds were being filtered through, but he'd more than happy to talk about a killing spree over some coffee and tea.

John wouldn't say a word. Everything he did, he kept inside. That was what made him dangerous.

Because you couldn't predict a man that didn't have a tell.

 ** _Twang_**. Dutch flipped open the top of his lighter, beating out a cigarette as he let his thoughts shift around in his head. He kept his eyes to the window behind his office, staring out at the Roanapur docks as he lifted the butt to his mouth.

 ** _Click_** _._ A practiced flick of the spark wheel and a flame blossomed to life. He held it up to the end of his cigarette, letting the tobacco product burn to a red smolder. He sucked in a deep breath, shortening the stick. His fingers pinched and removed the cigarette long enough to let him blow a puff of smoke from his lungs.

It was relaxing, at least helping him to calm his nerves. His eyes turned to the window again, studying the distant harbor of his city of business. It was dark out now, the horizon of his office being replaced with dark seas and dotted stars above. He wasn't a romantic, definitely not a poet, but staring at something that constant always kept him in line.

The Lagoon company had not survived for as long as it had because of luck and good intentions. It survived because Dutch knew how to run a business. And to do that, he had to know the clients, the cargo, and how to keep them both safe and happy.

If anything happened to one or the other, the reputation of Lagoon company would fall. If that happened, in Roanapur, there wouldn't be a coin on the street for them to pick up. That wasn't good.

Dutch took in a slow drag from his cigarette, removing it from his lips and nubbing it out a moment later. It filled the room with the stench of tobacco, just the thing to calm him down. Wasn't enough though, least not enough to take all his nerves off the edge.

There were still a few looking out and over at what was coming and, as according to his business sense, it wasn't good.

John Wick was a force of nature, or whatever the hell controlled nature. He killed who had to be killed, killed them faster than lightning and quieter than space, then left without a trace. Dutch clicked his tongue at the truth of it. John was the boogeyman, and the best of the best because of it.

But he was also a loyal man. Never once did John double cross or back-stab the people he worked for, or who he got to work for him. All of five jobs, maybe six, with the man from the states and Dutch had never met someone so punctual and ethical about killing.

He paid well for using his boat, keeping his guns on board, and made sure everything was clean before he left. Dutch even remembered commenting after the first job that John was the only killer who cleaned up his room on his ship. Not even Revy did that.

That was the John Wick that Dutch remembered, even as he dragged on cigarettes and stared out his window. A man what you always wanted to be your friend, and who you could count on to get the job done.

But now that same man had come to him looking for help to run. That was anything but a good sign.

That was the devil himself walking up with a 'Watch the Fuck out' banner.

John removed his glasses, setting him on his desk as he rubbed at the creases on his nose. His mind was a mess and he didn't like it. Roanapur may have been gray as clay, but it was always black and white when it came to business. That was why he hated where he was right now.

"Fuck, John," Dutch whispered to himself, alone in the Lagoon Company offices. He was sure many people were saying the same thing over the world. No other reason he could think for John to be running than a lot of the wrong people got wronged.

If that were the case, then it was obvious what was going to happen. It was the same thing he'd seen happen to a lot of hopeful start-ups in the city of Thieves.

Loyalty to the wrong group got you killed by bigger groups. Loyalty only counted when loyalty was returned. And the return had to be great, or else was not worth having. No use in being loyal to the Cartel if they were going to rat you out for five less years in prison. Every reason to stay loyal to the Hotel if they were going to defend you from killers and thieves.

John used to be that, but Dutch was sure he couldn't anymore.

The many he knew had guns for storage, money to buy more, skill to make the Valkyries jealous, and contacts that mad the shadows run. The John know, from what Dutch could guess, only had one of those things, and it was damn near useless without at least one of the others.

Dutch was a lot of things too. Business man, ship captain, marksman, and entrepreneur. Had to be at least two of those to hope to survive in Roanapur, and he was one of the best in each. Funny thing was, all of them involved looking ahead, judging what you had to do, then acting on it.

Right now was no different. Because as far ahead as Dutch could see, bad things were coming. Acting like nothing was wrong was the most reliable way to get the Lagoon Company sent to the bottom of the seas. Now that he just couldn't abide.

A deep sigh left his lungs, taking the remnants of his cigarettes with them. He knew what he had to do, but like so many things in the city, he wasn't about to enjoy it.

He spun around in his chair, putting the city to his back and pulling out his phone. He knew the number had to call, memorized it. It called him as often as he called it.

Flipping open the old device, Dutch tapped the numbers in order, all ten digits, before raising the device to his ear. He heard the familiar ring as he waited for a response. It didn't matter it was late at night, someone was always awake to answer calls.

A Hotel always prided itself in service, after all.

"Zdrastvooyte," came the familiar greeting. "Who is calling." Dutch was intimidating by the familiar bluntness of the voice, let alone it's deep tone. He responded in kind, with the respect that a businessman should always give his clients.

"Hey Boris, I'm calling for Balalaika. She free to talk?" Boris was a loyal man to Hotel Moscow, and even more so to its head. He was also smart enough to know that Dutch wouldn't call for no reason. If the woman in red was open, he'd get her.

He waited in silence for a moment, the Russian Spetsnaz doubtlessly checking on the availability of his boss. It'd be bad business to rush a conversation while the other side was still working.

"The Kapitan is occupied, but will be free momentarily." Came the Sergeant's dutiful reply. Dutch nodded at it. "Is there anything you need me to be aware of?" The real question being asked was if there was a danger or threat to the hotel.

Normal answer was no. This wasn't normal.

"Actually, yeah, there is." Dutch took a slow drag of his cigarette, calming the nerves. The Hotel was cool, but bad news always made tempers flare, and theirs wasn't one he wanted to be burned by. "Had an old friend come in asking for help. Thought it might be something you and the Hotel could check out, maybe keep an eye on."

"…Please hold a moment longer," Boris spoke again before the line went mute. Probably getting Balalaika's attention now. That was good, least it meant he'd get his nerves calmed faster. Dutch knew waiting for anything was bad for the nerves, so anything to take that down was all the better.

There was a rustle on the other end of the line, complimented by him staring up at the ceiling of his office. With Revy and Rock gone to get wasted, it was all he had to look at. Truth was, it was the perfect thing to keep him focused, and a man had to be focused when on the job.

"Dutch, interesting having you call me this late." Came the smooth voice of the Head of Hotel Moscow. "It's always a pleasure to talk, but meetings this late are usually meant for a different kind of pleasure." Dutch was unfazed, and far from offset, by her casual conversation. Business without good manners was just a deal, after all, and no one survived off of deals alone.

"Believe me, no other place I'd rather be," Dutch responded. He kept his eyes up to the ceiling, staring at the familiar patterns. "But when work comes up, a businessman has to be ready for long nights and hard decisions."

"Oh Dutchy, I'm sorry to hear that," Balalaika responded. There was the usual care in her voice, but he knew it would last about as long as smoke from a gun. He was always more concerned with the bullet it fired. "I hope that isn't something from our end. After last time, I'd hate to have you in another difficult position."

"No worries there, nothin' but good relations with the Hotel from Lagoon Company," Dutch confirmed. He heard Balalaika hum on the other side of the line, likely taking a drag from her own cigarette. He didn't know if what used was that or if there was some other term for it. It was far from important. "Speaking of, been a while since we've done a job for you. I wouldn't mind if you offered us something."

"Your company has a very specific skillset, Dutchy," Balalaika responded. "There's no use in hiring you for menial labor. No no, you and your employees are much better suited for more… sensitive jobs." Information and smuggling, basically. Dutch knew it best, but it was never good to use those terms openly. Part of the being smart in a conversation.

"Yeah, I know it. Just figured you'd be open to the idea. You know how Revy gets without any work to do." The chuckling on the other end of the line was all the confirmation he needed that the conversation was still casual.

"That girl is as restless as she is talented," Balalaika confirmed. "You can put her at ease knowing that we'll have work for the Lagoon Company soon, all depending on how this little armistice continues with the Triads." Dutch didn't know there was talk about the truce going on.

It was good to know, especially for the future. But it wasn't too important right now. That was enough of a reminder for him though.

"Well, that puts us back to the reason I called," Dutch began. He knew that he had to ease into this message. Being blunt only worked when you were holding all the cards. Right now, he only had one, and he was giving it away.

"Something to do with the Triads?" Balalaika asked. "I understand you do work for Mr. Chang now and then, but I'm hardly greedy enough to insist on your complete devotion to me, Dutchy. Unless, of course, you're offering something of his?" The question was obvious, but so was his answer.

"Sorry, but you know my rules. Anything you purchase for Lagoon Company, we give. That includes the guarantee of silence." It was nothing but a friendly reminder, she knew that. Balalaika often gave them tips for the same reason. "But no, haven't talked to Mr. Chang in a while either."

"You are doing an excellent job at keeping me in suspense," the woman returned. Dutch knew better than to believe she was humored by the effort. "And while I do love a bit of tension, now is hardly a good time for it."

"Yeah, sorry about that," Dutch relented, rubbing at the bridge of his nose again. With his glasses off, it felt a little bare. "Just trying to figure out the best way to break weird news." And it was weird, but with a penchant to go bad. New killers in Roanapur always did one of two things. Kill or get killed.

"Oh, and you're offering it for free?" Balalaika questioned first. Dutch knew why. Information that went to her was usually worth a pretty penny. And Dutch knew better than to waste her time with bad info. "It must be something worrying than. But, it couldn't be a threat, or else you would have told Boris about it. An old acquaintance then?"

"Yup, right on the money," Dutch confirmed. "Came right on in here asking for favors I couldn't give. A little bit of thinking told me I couldn't even help him with his money either." Because Dutch knew his life and his company was worth more than two pieces of gold.

"You do have a talent for recognizing dangerous deals," Balalaika confirmed. "It's a part of that skillset I enjoy using you and your company for. But then that just leaves me to ask what was this poor deal you saw? Or, more importantly, who was offering it?"

Dutch sighed deeply, lowering his hand from his face and leaning over his table. The feeling of distaste surged in him again. It was an awful feeling, but one he had developed a skill for swallowing and powering through. A good businessman always had to know when to do the bad to accomplish the good.

"John Wick is back in town."

Silence echoed on the other side of the line. Dutch knew better than to say anything, not until Balalaika spoke again. Knowing the boogeyman was back in Roanapur was something that you needed time to process.

Hell, Dutch knew he was still processing it. He just knew better than to wait before calling the Hotel about it. Dutch was already at risk for whoever was chasing John. He didn't need the players at home turning their guns at him, too.

"How sure are you, Dutch?" Balalaika had lost all play in her voice. He could nearly feel the phone straining under her grip from across the line. That was what he expected, and he hated to be right.

"Absolute," he responded. "Can't tell you much about what's changed. I can just say that he came in a half-a-day ago, dressed like a bum and injured to boot." He knew one part of that sentence would attract attention.

"Injured?" Balalaika repeated. "What do you mean? Shot, stabbed, broken limbs perhaps?" Dutch couldn't tell.

"I'd say stabbed for sure, probably shot at," Dutch answered. "But he sure as hell didn't have anything broken, aside from his pride maybe." It wouldn't be a surprise to know that was the case, remembering the state he was in. But then again, John having any emotion was something terrifying by itself.

"I see," Balalaika noted. Dutch heard something going on in the silence between their conversation, probably directing her subordinates to act. "And what did he come to you for?"

"Tried paying me for a boat. Then when I said no, for where he could look to find one." Dutch told her the truth without hesitation. "He walked out after that, taking his dog with him."

"His dog?" Balalaika questioned. "Interesting. What else did he have on him?" There was more rustling and clicking behind her, probably her walking, or maybe a gun being readied. Dutch wasn't sure, and in truth, it wasn't his place to care. He questioned it and he would just have the sights turned on him.

"Just a torn-up suit and a rag on his head," Dutch played with the lighter in his hand, flipping it through his fingers. "Never seen him in anything so ruined before. Kinda the high sign that something wasn't going right for him."

"That is a small way of putting it." Dutch furrowed his brow at the words. That wasn't what he expected her to say, especially after hearing the killer of killers was back in town. "But thank you Dutch, this is news I never thought I receive."

"I'm just looking out for my business," Dutch honestly responded. So honest that it gave rise to his next question. "But now I've gotta ask if there is something else I should be looking out for? Full respect to you Balalaika, but it sounds like you were expecting John."

"I wasn't," Balalaika returned quickly. "And as long as you stay where you are Dutch, I can assure you that nothing will happen. You've proven your services once again, so I'll be sure to arrange a quick job for you and Lagoon company. It may only take a day or two of your time." A payoff, obviously. But one that Dutch was in no room or mind to turn away from.

"Oh? Well that's good to hear." Dutch had more than one bell going off at the sudden turn of conversation, but he had the self-awareness to not look a gift-horse in the mouth, let alone the queen of the Russian Mob with enough gun and skill to take on the world. "I'll be sure to pass the good news on in the morning."

"You do that, and stay safe until then," Balalaika spoke, her playful tone slowly returning in her voice. Dutch was hardly fooled, but he was also far from off-put. "You take care of yourself Dutchy. I'll call you tomorrow with details."

 **Click**.

The line when dead without another word or confirmation. Dutch lowered the phone from his ear, closing it and setting it back on his desk. His tongue clicked in irritation, but mind already speculating on what the job would be.

Knowing Balalaika, likely munitions transport, or perhaps a disposal of traceable materials. Deep sea was good for losing traceable cargo, and the Lagoon ship was hardly an associate of the Hotel. Not when it did as much work for the Triads and Cartel.

It was good, having another job that would keep them afloat for another week or two, depending on the payout. Rock would likely appreciate the lack of danger involved, through Revy would perhaps only appreciate the chance to fire her guns. Benny would probably ask if Jane could come, depending on the work.

Whatever the job was though, it was most definitely going to be out of Roanapur, far out. Far enough to take him and Lagoon company and put them out of the firing range of the Hotel. Dutch knew his clients, as any good businessman did, so he knew when Balalaika was getting ready to hunt.

What he couldn't figure out was why. Balalaika was the soft side of crazy, ready to tear into a warzone for kicks, but not stupid enough to do it without guns to shoot and clear path out. A danger junky like Revy, but with her head on straighter and intelligence over instinct.

She did this before, when Rock was being an idiot and trying to help out Mr. Chang and his friend find Roberta. She sent her men to hunt the Americans, then she went after the mad dog herself. Hardly a surprise she came out on top from that one. But now, things were different, and in a bad way.

He flicked, prepped, and worked on his third cigarette, turning back towards the Roanapur harbor as he thought. It was rare he had a chance to enjoy the calm before a storm hit, at least with how fast the city usually work. Balalaika had given him all the heads up she likely would. And for that Dutch, was grateful.

She was about to hunt big game, and Dutch knew there was no game bigger than Babayaga.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Officially, I am starting a new job as a patent writer, and I love it so far! It does mean I'm writing both professionally and for fun. Hooray! BUT! I also realize that it is VERY difficult to both writer four ongoing stories reliably on top of everything else going on in my life.

So, here's the new catch. I'm updating two stories a month, those being in pairs. Unknown Legends and A Man of Focus are being updated together, then MagicTale and Your Father's A Hero in another. This month, it's the former two, and the latter two in August. As I want to keep consistency in my stories, this means that MagicTale and Unknown Legends are much longer, so take more time to write.

Also, I've been taking some lessons in writing, and one of the suggestions was having a purpose for every chapter. If a chapter is useless, don't include it. Useless does not mean not progressing the plot. Useless is having no additional depth to any part of the story.

So, my goal with this update, and all others on all stories, is to detail out what I am trying to show in each chapter. I'll do it at the end to avoid spoilers, and hopefully to get people reading more interested in where my mind is at (if you like that sort of thing).

For this update, I wanted:

John Wick's impressions on Roanapur as a city

Loyalties and their workings in Roanapur

The clear and present danger to John while in Roanapur


	4. Fool

John walked up the hill Officer Watsup told him to with little hesitation. There was little reason to hesitate. It left the few high-rises of the city, reducing the chance of ambush or blockades. By consequence, it reduced the chance of an ambush.

It still meant he was walking with his dog up a long hill, the sun beginning to set behind him. He'd prefer to have the sun in front of him as it set, making it harder for would-be killers to sneak up on him, the blinding effect of walking into the sun.

But that was not important. What was important was finding the bar Yolanda had told him of and Officer Watsup had guided him to. It was his next best place to find a means to leave Roanapur and further escape his pursuers.

 ** _Woof!_** His dog barked again, running ahead of him as he continued his trek up the hill. The road was unpopulated, so it was alright. His dog turned after he made a few lunges forwards anyways, turning around to stare at John, tongue out and panting.

John did not quicken his pace, only opting to keep an eye out on the dog that followed. Every time he got close enough to the dog to pet him, the dog ran ahead again, just out of reach. John did not understand, but so long as the dog did not run away he did not pursue.

"Easy boy," he spoke still, cautioning his dog. Over eagerness was bad when in foreign lands, or any land that you did not control. There were no rules in Roanapur, and that meant eagerness could lead to folly and downfall. He was too close, come too far, to risk such a thing now.

It did not help that the sun was soon setting, that the visibility of the terrain was decreasing. It increased risk, only more so now that he was in unfamiliar territory. No mapmaker in the City of thieves to help him.

It was an equal reminder that even if he found a ship tonight, any sailor or captain would take no action until tomorrow. He would need a place to stay the night, to rest and prepare himself. The roads in Roanapur where not the same as the streets of New York.

If he slept in the dark in this city, he would lose far more than respect or dignity.

 **Woof!** John looked at his dog again, running in circles before running ahead then into circles again. He was eager to move forward, to speed up the pace. But John was patient, and there were reasons to not rush.

"Easy boy," he spoke again. "We're almost there." In truth, he did not know, but they were closer than they were before. But it was hard to tell in a dirty city in the dark.

All the buildings were similar, all the cars the same, all the shadows too alike.

Except for the one building alight on the hill.

It was not a bar, but a cantina. John had seen several of them before. He knew the difference well. It was a cantina with doors that doubled as open walls, a bottom floor twice as tall as the upper structure, and lights bolted, guarded, and secured to the walls like cameras in a bank.

It did indeed shine like a small beacon, a flare in an otherwise dark fire-fight, illuminating all around it. John could count the rounded pillars, the detailed arcs, the ruined chairs, the chipped walls, and the fading paint along the upper banner.

Yellowflag, the bar in question, was immediately and obviously clear.

John hummed as he stared at it, memorizing all the he could see. The exits, the entrances, the walls, the supports, the reinforcements, and the exterior barriers. Everything may be needed. It was not worth forgetting.

"C'mon boy," John spoke to his dog, petting his pet's head. Panting breaths with a slobbering jaw was his response. It was all he needed.

John's feet moved from pushing dirt to clicking tiles as he entered the Yellowflag. Despite the darkening sky, the bar was scarcely populated. Counting the barstools, the tables, and empty spaces about the interior, easily fifty to sixty adults could be present. There were hardly more than three present now.

That included the bar tender.

It was too early for the bar to be populated, perhaps, at least not yet. Ships came in late and people traveled in groups. Waiting for friends, waiting for others, the bar would be filled, if it was truly the place Yolanda said it was.

That meant he had time, just enough, to talk to someone else he needed. Those present were likely not the owners of boats. In a bar before busy hours were not the dwelling places for those active or focused.

The tender of the bar, however, was always observant. An observant man knew what others chose to ignore. In short, John needed to speak to him.

The vacancy of the cantina made the path easy, allowing John to sit at the poorly padded stool. He spoke no word of complaint. His dog sat on the floor beside him, tongue hanging out and observing those present.

"You're a new face," the bartender quickly spoke up. John looked at the man, thin and gaunt with a small line of facial hair. He was cleaning a bar of vodka, wiping liquid off the bottle's label. "Need anything before the bar gets packed."

Two things learned. First, the man was respectful, far more than the average citizen in the city of thieves. Two, he confirmed people were sure to come soon. That meant John only had to wait.

His eyes drifted to his dog, his companion having drooped until he was laying on the cool tile floor. It had been a long day for them, with a lot of walking involved for both.

"Water, please," John spoke simply, nodding his head with the action. The bartender returned the action, putting his bottle down as he grabbed a glass. John realized an error. "In a bowl, please." Now the man stopped.

"A bowl?" The man asked, lips curling far enough to twist the thin line of hair above his lip. "Buddy, all the crazy shit I see day-to-day, I'm begging you not to do something that crazy this early." John dedicated no thought to the man's insinuations.

"It's for my dog," John answered simply, motioning downwards. The man blinked, drawing closer to John and leaning over the thick bar counter. John watched, carefully, as the man stared at his dog.

His frame was thin from head to two, and no knives or guns visible on him. Very likely given the status of the bar and the city it was in that there was ammunitions behind the bar, likely high enough he could reach, grab, and fire within a few seconds.

"Geez, didn't even see him," the man's words brought Johns focus back to him, watching at the man leaned back to his side of the bar. "But I'm going to have to give you the bad news that pets ain't allowed in the store."

His dog looked up as if called, licking his lips before panting. John turned his own gaze to the bartender, looking at the man with a level glare.

It was a rule of the establishment, and breaking them often led to more trouble. However, following it was a risk for his companion, and he was not going to risk more harm to his dog.

"Is there somewhere he can stay?" Often the Continentals had places such as that, for cars, for pets, for visitors without coins to spare. Perhaps even a city of thieves had something such as that, in a cantina they all visited.

"You mean like a backroom?" The man asked. He scratched his head, twisting his lips and beard to match. "I mean, maybe? Can't say for sure. Wouldn't it be easier to just put him at your own place? You've gotta have a hotel room or something like that."

John did not have a hotel room or anything similar to such.

"Do you have a room upstairs?" John recalled there was a floor above the cantina. For what it was used for, he could surmise, but perhaps he could pay for a room there.

It was dangerous, however. A city of thieves was a city without honor. Even this man's rule for the bar appeared to waver at a mere suggestion. But if a suggestion was all it took, perhaps something more would allow it to bend.

"Hey now, _I_ live upstairs," the man spoke with a thumb to his chest. "And this place is the only thing I got to my name." It was not much, but John could understand the dedication to keeping what you had.

The man, however, did not appear to see the understanding upon John's face.

"Don't give me that glare now," the bartender spoke, misunderstanding something in John's eyes. "It's the only set of rules I got in this place! I stay up there, guests stay in here, and pets stay out there!" His hand was pointing with his words, emphasizing his every action.

John realized the benefit now to speaking to this man before the crowd arrived. Would the sailors or captains be present, they would be off-put by the commission. That would reduce the chance for conversation, and there through any bartering for travel.

The quicker he was able to resolve this, the better.

"I mean no disrespect," John answered honestly. The man did not recognize him, so subterfuge language would be just as recognizable. "I am only looking for a place to rest and drink." It was part of what he wanted, but it was all the man needed to know."

"Huh? That's it?" The bartender deflated quickly at John's words. He watched the man carefully, keeping his gaze hidden, even under the ill-fitting hat. "I mean… that's… pretty reasonable of you." That was odd for a bartender to say.

For a man who dealt drinks to men who sailed on the seas, lived in the city, or stole from those in between, he seemed remarkably verbose with his words. But it mattered little to John. He needed a ship to sail and a place to rest.

"Sorry I'm just used to foreigners who come in here wrecking the place. It's almost like clockwork at this point." That was unfortunate, but it was no business of John's. "So… you're serious about following the rules?" In the city of Roanapur, that was reasonable question for the owner of a business.

"Yes," John answered with a nod. But there was more he needed.

His dog was still thirsty. That had not changed. Only if he could drink it in here or outside. John could wait outside, behind the bar or out of sight. He could wait with his dog until he started to search for the sailor or captain who looked willing to deal.

"Well that's good. About time someone came in here without planning to break them." The bartender tilted is head left and right, thinking about something John couldn't care to guess. He only wanted water for his dog now. "So… you got a place to stay then? Like, a place you can put your dog up in?"

"No," John answered simply again. He planned to find a place after he found a sailor. If the Triads still had good terms, they may have a hotel space he could afford for the night. The Cartel was a less likely but still viable option, depending on how connected they were with outside contracts…

"That's too bad," the man spoke again. "But now you've got me wondering why a sharp-dressed man like you is in a place like this." A reasonable curiosity. "Can't be planned if you don't got a place to stay." A clever deduction.

"I am looking for a boat." It was an answer John planned on giving several more times before the end of the night, to experienced sailors or greedy captains.

"A boat, huh? Tried the harbor earlier? You've got more luck there than asking in a bar." That was not what Yolanda had told him, per her instructions in gratitude. But then, perhaps this man was thinking in different terms than the nun of the Rip-Off Church.

This man was a bartender attempting a quiet job in a city of deceit. Yolanda was a nun masquerading divinity with death. One belonged to Roanapur far more than the other.

"But hey, I'm all about making good friends with good people. Only way I can keep my sanity these days." The last bit of his sentence was spoken under his breath, head shaking in dismay. It was unimportant to John. "You wanna make a deal?"

John squinted his eyes, watching the man carefully. Deals in cities such as Roanapur were often traps. Traps were what lead to high contract jobs on his life. He could not risking falling into another, not so quickly let alone so easily.

"This place is always a mess in the mornings, seeing as the drunks, fucks, and killers in here don't care too much about staying clean." Yolanda had spoke that the Yellowflag was popular with the underside of an already dark city. "Usually takes me the entire day just getting the place ready for the next night."

A problem for a business owner, not having the time to prepare for his business. But it was unimportant to John. He needed a boat and some water. His dog was still thirsty.

"So hey, I'll tell ya what. You can stay the night in a spare room I got upstairs." John listened. That was one of the few things he needed. "But you gotta help me clean up in the morning. Do that and we're square."

John could think of no reason to disagree. The man offered a place to sleep outside of Roanapur's shadows, at the cost of easing his job. It was a deal, no different than a job for his freedom, something beyond cost.

He was not in a place to lecture a man about the worth of his time.

"Agreed." John spoke a nod of his head. Said head turned when felt his dog nudging at his leg, tongue panting out as he did so. That was one more thing he needed. "May I have a bowl of water."

"Hey, shake on it first," the man spoke with a hand stretched over the gnarled bar counter. John inspected it for a moment, seeing no indentations for knives or needles, before shaking it. It made the bartender grin with shut eyes. "And yeah, I'll set your dog up upstairs, long as he doesn't make a mess."

"He won't." John knew he wouldn't. A lack of food made that difficult. Water was more important. But now that he had two things he needed, he needed a third for records. A reminder of who was his supplier. "May I have your name."

"Wait, shoot, I didn't give it?" The bartender actually looked shocked at himself. John waited patiently for him. All he needed now was a boat, and he could not get that until sailors and captains arrived. "Guess I'm not used to meeting new faces that last around here."

John did not understand the saying, but he took note of the man saluting him with an unprofessional posture. A mockery of the usual strictness of most military companies.

"Name's Bao, and the baby you're staying in is the Yellowflag, my pride and joy." Owner and operator, it seemed. Not too uncommon in the darker parts of the world, and Roanapur was one of the darkest. "So what's yours? Gotta ask if you're going to be sleeping for a night." A simple answer was all that was needed.

"John." He spoke, and only that. Any more was an unnecessary risk.

"John huh? That's forgettably plain." That would be a preferred outcome. "You gotta have a catchy name if you wanna be remembered. Kinda like Yellowflag. Who's gonna forget that?" He held out his arms with obvious pride.

John spoke nothing in return. He had no reason to speak. He still needed water for his dog and to wait for the sailors and captains to come in to drink.

"Kay, well, you coulda at least acted like you agreed." Bao deflated in front of John, arms resting on his bar. His eyes looked over the wood to John's dog, still nudging at John. "So, what's the boy's name? Bet that's catchier than John."

"He has no name." John spoke even as he petted his dog's head. It calmed him, and he didn't need his dog barking. He needed to approach the sailors and captains under neutral circumstances, not with wary eyes.

"Heh… I guess I was right. I'm not going to forget that." His chuckle was nervous, forced even. He eyes were diverting as well. "How do you find him in a crowd? Bark for him?" The man continued his nervous laughter

John did not see the point. He only needed water for his dog and to wait for the sailors and captains to come. That was all he needed at the moment.

"Okay, yeah, forced jokes are bad jokes, I get it." Bao sighed dejectedly. He scratched the back of his neck with his head hung low. "And… might be the worse time to remind ya of this, but the dog's really got be somewhere else when the major crowd comes in." John had not forgotten.

"Can he wait upstairs now?" John asked simply, simple questions for simple answers. The bartender gave a wide grin.

"Yeah, that was the kinda the deal." He hopped back in the bar, walking around the long plank of wood. John watched him, unsure still if the man was completely trustworthy.

Knives could be hidden in more places than under shirt sleeves. Guns in just as many and just as obscure of places. And this was Roanapur, the city where such deceit was to be expected.

But the man came up next to John with trepidation, hands on his hips and eyes on the dog. He had no obvious weapons on him still, even with more of his frame shown to John.

"Seems like well trained dog. Usually only see that from the Cartel." John hung on the name. Bao was familiar with them.

They were a powerful force in Roanapur before, but it was difficult to tell how much, if any, that had changed. If the average citizen such as the owner of the cantina knew of their employees, they were far from in hiding. Public showing of force meant strong ties beyond their eyes.

But in Roanapur, the barrier between the seen and unseen was blurry as bloody water.

"So, anything special I should be careful for?" Bao asked. "I'll be right back down, and you're goin' up eventually, but I don't him making a mess cause I forgot to close the windows or something." John did not understand the sentiment with windows.

"No." John answered simply. His dog was well trained. He didn't need much to be well care for. "He just needs water."

"Yeah, yeah, I won't forget that." Bao spoke, waving his hand. "You wanna pay for that now or later, cause the clean up only covers the room, not the board." John was familiar with the terms.

Instead of a verbal response, he fished into his fresh suit, looking for the coins all present in Roanapur had denied. He found the clinking gold easily, fishing out a single coin to give to the bartender.

John had only seen eyes widen so wide when guns were involved.

Odd to the man's character, he didn't respond immediately. Instead, he slowly reached out a hand, grasping the cold gold from John's. He let it go, letting the owner of the Yellowflag observe the thin piece of currency.

"… I recognize this." John was curious by those words. He could recall no citizen anywhere else that recognize the currency of the continental. Not even Roanapur from old had such people in it. "Some bitch when gender issues gave me one before. She kept waving her hands as she did it."

Ares. The man had met Ares. Before her ordeal with the Italians and the false hit on his name, she had come to this town and paid this man. John did not know what, and could think of no reason why.

Likely another contract that didn't involve him. It didn't involve him, so he shouldn't care.

But the man seemed far more hesitant now, an issue if anything. John had to retreat then. He had to take his belongings and-

"Whoa! Hey! I never said I wouldn't accept it!" The man pulled back his hand as John reached up, pulling the gold coin out of his reach. "I may need cash, but with the Triads in town, I can break this for a hella lot more than some burnable bills."

John relaxed, if a little, at the man's acceptance of the coin. He clearly did not understand the significance. That was good.

"So, yeah, this'll cover a bowl of water," Bao nodded quickly, his eyes far more focused than John recalled them being before. "Hell, I'll throw in a drink and somethin' ta eat if you're interested. Got a spare plate of potatoes from lunch." Leftovers. His previous lunch.

It was preferred to the scraps John had eaten from the trash cans before.

"Thank you." He spoke with a nod, brim of his off-colored hat hiding his eyes for a moment in the action. He could see Bao grinning when he came back up, pocketing the gold coin and snapping his fingers next to his dog.

"C'mon boy, let's get ya put up for the night." John's dog licked his lips, pushing off of John and towards Bao. His dog had good senses, so he trusted the man. The bartender nodded towards John once more before turning around, heading towards a rear door in the bar.

John watched the man and the dog disappear through it. It was a risk, of course, but the man had too many openings and too little fear about John to feign ignorance.

He did not recognize him, and as such, he was very unlikely to be preparing a trap for him. His dog would be safer in the upstairs room, away so that John could not be identified with him. He was a good boy, but he was not easy to hide.

That left John alone in the Yellowflag, save for a few individuals spread out about the cantina's interior. He noted them on entrance and they hadn't changed now. Barflies that appeared to already be inebriated from a day's drink.

Even if they recognized him, they would be easy to pass off as unsound in mind. John only needed to wait for the sailors and captains, then he could ensure a way out of the city.

"Back again," Bao spoke as he returned from the rear door. John watched him as he returned to behind the bar, a bright smile on his face. "And I got your food here for ya, too." The man set a plate out in front of John.

It was unappealing, compared to the usual meals served at the Continentals. It had no heat to it, likely taken out of a fridge only moments ago. Half of it was gone and John could observe the areas of the potatoes sporting fork marks and knife edges.

There was no glaze, no careful preparation, and very likely no dedicated plot of land the potatoes grew from. In a city of thieves, the produce likely grew next to unmarked graves.

But it was better than fly ridden meat or spoiled cheese. It was better than nothing as well.

John lifted a fork, carefully cutting into the potatoes, and ingesting them without word. They were cold and stale, but likely the most edible meal he'd had in days. He chewed the starch slowly.

"Yeah, not high cuisine. Sorry about that." Bao spoke, arms crossed and watching John. "How about I get you that drink I promised, to square up the gold coin, huh?" He winked with his words, stretched his thin mustache with the effort.

Fortunately, John knew what he wanted.

"Blanton, single glass, on the rocks" John spoke, pointing out the drink on the display. It had been weeks since he had a glass. If one was offered under the proper circumstance, it would only be proper to accept.

"Goin' for the high class stuff, huh?" Bao grinned at John's request. "You go the suit for it, so it makes sense." John spoke nothing, only waiting for his drink.

Bao pushed off the bar, turning to grab the drink in question. On a slow bar night, it made sense he would take time to prepare. John was in no hurry. He was only waiting for the sailors and captains to arrive.

Once they had, his drink would be discarded for the objective. Anything to allow him safe exit from a city of thieves.

"One glass of Blanton on the rocks," Bao spoke as he placed the chilled glass on the counter, pushing it towards John. He grabbed it with calloused hands, feeling the sweat of the drink already.

He swallowed sips of the drink, careful to not intoxicate himself. Too much too quickly lead to reduced faculties, often resulting in improper judgement. At critical times, that was uncalled for.

"So why are ya in Roanapur, John?" Bao asked as John held his drink. "May not be a place ya want to end up, but something put you here. It's gotta be something worth talking about if it shoved you to this pit of the world."

It was something John could not talk about.

He could not talk about the contract on his head. He could not talk about the rules he had broken. He could not talk about the assassins that still haunted him. He could not talk about the plan he had to escape.

He could not talk about using Roanapur as a guise to hide himself from his pursuers. He could not talk about the connections he sparsely used. He could not talk about the retirement he was looking to return to.

And, most certainly, he could not talk about where he wanted to go next.

"It's a complicated manner," John spoke in response, vague but pointed. He could see Bao twist his lips at the response.

"I'm hoping you've just had a string of bad luck." John eyed him carefully, drink stilling in his hand. "Cause at least that'd explain why you're so against having a simple talk. If you're dragging yourself out of hell, probably not a good time to talk."

He spoke from experience, likely. Because John could recall Helen saying so much the opposite.

"Then again, kinda hard to imagine you being in Roanapur for any other reason. Place isn't exactly in the top contender for tourist hotspot." He chuckled at his own joke, one that John did not share. "Well, take your time and relax. I'll show ya the room upstairs when your ready."

He tapped the bar before turning to walk down its length, leaving John alone at his stool. He followed the man, watching him pick up glasses and wiping them clean, stacking them for easy access. Preparation for a fight, the only fight a civilian such as himself was meant to fight.

John continued to take minute sips from his bourbon, holding onto the taste as it fell. Bao was an interesting man. Interesting, however, did not matter to John. He needed sailors and captains, not odd outliers.

And so far, no one new had entered the Yellowflag, though that was likely soon to change. The night was darkening and the few lights upon the road John could see were not alight. Already there were vehicles approaching, and he could only hope they were weary sailors looking for drink and conversation.

Methods and plans were all he thought about. Asking with gold short in hand, avoiding reasons and purpose. Specifying a destination by elimination of what wasn't available. Setting coin aside to ask Bao for drinks, if the captains needed such.

Captains would be ideal. Sailors could be denied requests. If a captain agreed, no one could argue. But captains often did not associate with sailors in off hours. A ranking system they attempted to enforce.

John could prepare for both. And he did, even as the first set of cars pulled around the Yellowflag. He listened to the engines calm. He heard people shuffling on the dirty road outside.

But he did not hear the jeers and banter of sailors from the sea. He heard something far worse.

"Hey Bao! Get a round ready ASAP!" A bombastic feminine voice yelled, slamming open swinging doors. "A _shit_ day with _shit_ news means we gotta _fuck_ our _shit_ up!" Her language was as refined as her manners.

"I'll get the drinks, Revy." The masculine voice was far calmer compared to its female counterpart, but lacking even a trace of baritone. "They'll be ready by the time you get a table." There were many free tables, so John did not understand the time difference.

But he did recognize the man's voice, and just barely the woman's.

"Oh great. Here I thought my evening was gonna be an easy one," Bao remarked, even as John watched him fish for a tall bottle of vodka, a Russian blend John recognized. "Least I'll be making a profit."

John said nothing. He was too close to Bao and the young man approaching them to speak. If he did, the man would recognize him, and he would not be able to speak to the sailors or captains when they did show.

"Good evening Bao. A full tray, twelve shots, and-" The mains' order was interrupted by the bartender himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha Rock," Bao interrupted with a tray in front of him, a dozen small shot glasses being filled as he spoke. "Only thing you and Revy are predictable with is what you'll get when you're here."

"Ha ha, thank you very much," the man, Rock as he was named, returned. John watched with his glass raised, hiding his face from sight. He could not afford to be recognized. "I will be sure to stop Revy from causing any damage today." A single bill was held out as he spoke.

"Same as every other day, I'm sure," Bao spat out, though taking outstretched bill. "Keep it down to one barstool at least. Anything more than that and I'm gonna have to send the bill to Dutch." John hid his every emotion at the name.

Dutch. These were the individuals who worked for Dutch. The man and woman at the Lagoon building.

"I'll be sure to do so. Thank you once more." The Japanese man bowed with the tray before returning to his companion. He had a straight posture and overly generous mannerisms. A far cry from the norm in a city of thieves.

"That better be the strong stuff, Rock. Cause there's no way anything less than fuck-your-brains-raw alcohol is gonna make up for today." Revy, the far more verbose of the two, yelled. She was heedless of the few others around her.

John did not turn to look at them. He did not twist his head to listen to them. He did not care for them. He only needed a sailor or a captain to speak to, the latter over the former. Companions to Dutch were unimportant, but they were a blockade.

"Sorry 'bout them." John looked to see Bao standing in front of him again, cleaning a glass with a dirty rag. "Regulars from Lagoon company. Long as Rock keeps Revy swimming in the booze, she'll only be hurting your ears tonight." He chuckled again at his joke. John did not.

It took little deduction to know that her poor attitude was because of him. She had her guns fixated on him at the Lagoon Company, ready to kill him if Dutch asked her. She was his muscle.

That meant she would bring unnecessary attention to him if she recognized him. Her companion likely would as well, though in a kinder manner. Both were bad.

"Don't worry too much about them," Bao spoke again. "Once the regulars start pouring in, they'll start chatting up a storm worth calling in the ships for." Another joke John did not care for, but the bartender enjoyed.

It only meant John had to wait for the crowd to come before he could move. A crowded space was a difficult space to maneuver in, but it was equally difficult to recognize faces. If he kept his poor hat upon his head, he would be alright. Likely, though not guaranteed.

But he still needed to speak to a sailor or a captain. He could not retreat until he had done so.

That only meant he had to wait longer.

Tilting the glass in his hand back, he emptied the contents of the bourbon. He let the liquid trickle down his through, avoiding gulps of the hot liquid. He could feel only the faintest licks of the alcohol, burning under his heart and numbness at the ends of his toes.

Putting the glass down, staring at Bao, John pulled out another golden coin from his pocket.

"Another."

* * *

Two Guns. That was her nickname. Given to her from Mr. Chang and spread by Dutch and Balalaika.

Two Guns Revy, the meanest bitch and cruelest mistress that ever set raised a gun in Roanapur. She got a birth in crowds, a pass from the cops, and free ammo from the dumb fuckers who thought they were faster than her.

She was the best and she knew it. All that being short of the top dogs like Balalaika at least.

Sure, she may not have Rock's smarts, Dutch's business sense, Balalaika's leadership, or Benny's computer skills, but with a pair of handguns and ammo to spare, she could take on anything from a ship full of shit-eating Nazis to a village of pig-fucking rebels.

And right now, that included the six-shot challenge with the 'bullet' to her 'gun'.

Revy grabbed the third shot glass and downed it as fast as she could, savoring almost the burn. It felt good, remaindering her that pain was a gain, and the gain was a numbness nothing could take away.

"PhuaaAA!" Her turned her gasp of relief into a yell, slamming the shot glass on the table. "Burns like salt in the wound! Bet you'll be saying that after I bet ya Rock!" Revy turned a snake eye to her partner, seeing the jap holding his third glass in his hand.

"I told you once before Revy, and I'll say it twice more." Rock shut his eyes as he threw back his head, taking the burning liquid down the chute. Revy could watch the liquid go down his gullet, the man taking it all at once.

The same way how she could see tears in his eyes when his head leaned forward, sucking in a breath of air.

"What's that you gotta tell me Rock?" She teased him pocking his forehead with a wry grin on her face. She let her canines show when he scowled at her. It was all he could to her, they both knew.

All of Rock's muscles were in his head.

"Somethin' about you'd be dead with me? Bout how your fag-fucking employeers would be roasting your ass without me? C'mon big boy, you can do it." She watched him seethe, pushing down the burn of the vodka.

"Don't…" Rock began again, licking his lips. Already parched at shot three? Talk about sad. "Don't underestimate a salaryman!" He yelled with a gusto that only he could make sound pathetic.

What wasn't pathetic was him chugging two shots at once.

"Shit Rock!" Revy spoke, sitting up as she watched him slam his head down. That got a few heads to turn. "I said this was a challenge, not a fucking suicide pact!"

She watched the jap squeeze the shot glasses in his hand, slamming them down on the table hard enough to make the last four glasses jump. Thank god none of them spilled. But fuck that, Revy had her eyes on the mad jap Rock!

Said man squeezing his face together like a gun was at his temple. With the fire in his throat, Revy bet it sure felt like it.

"GhaaA!" He gave a hoarse breath of air, spitting and gulping at the same time. His hands griped the side of the table, holding himself in place as he turned red-cracked eyes at Revy. She felt herself snarl at them.

"You're up." He said it with a glim grin. He said it like he'd already won. Revy knew how to fuck that smile up _without_ a gun!

"So bottoms fucking up!" She yelled as she grabbed at two glasses of her own, tilting her head back as she opened her gullet. The rich vodka fell right in.

And her nose paid the price.

Revy grit her teeth and shut her lips to keep herself from coughing up the liquid, burning through her throat and flowing up her nostril canals. It burned like a tong from a fireplace was being stabbed into her ass. She could compare _that_ pain!

"Gha! AH!" Revy spat out the air, feeling the fire turn solid ice in her throat. Felt that way at least. Big Sis talked a lot about ice torture for the traitors in Moscow, and now Revy had something to compare _that_ too.

Her tongue swirled inside her mouth, wetting the dry parts that she touched, putting out fires and melting ice. Vodka was a fucking _mean_ drink.

"Even as a sniper sight, Rock," Revy pointedly spoke to her partner. "You gonna pass out on six? Need me to get a gurney for your pale ass?" Japs were as white as snow, about as threatening, too.

She took a good look at Rock's seething grin, the red rims around his eyes doing a lot for his usually bored expression. Revy'd shoot up a salon if it meant getting that look on his face more often. Hell, she already did that like twice a month.

Cheers were filling up around her, the usual bastards and bitches cheering them onto to finish the dozen glass challenge. Revy didn't give a single shit about them. They'd be dead or gone by next week anyways. Facts of Roanapur.

Wait, when had the crowd gotten here? Whatever, didn't matter. Now they had cheers at least for the final shot.

"I'm not done, Revy." Grabbed at his glass, clenching it like it was his lifeline. It was the lifeline to Revy's respect for him at least. "Or are you goading me so you don't have to throw in the towel?" Revy clicker her tongue at that. Figures the 'salaryman' would use big words to make-up for small deeds.

"It'll take a hell of a lot more than that!" Revy grabbed her own drink, lifting it up and putting the rim to her lips. "Bottom's up Jap!"

Revy titled her head back. She let the burn take its course.

Her head was swimming with it now, like she was thrown into some sadist's ideal dream of a fire pool and ice bath. Her vision was about as straight as the grip on her Berettas and cloudy as ocean water.

A hand slammed on the table, keeping her up-right and from falling off the edge of the earth. Pretty damn sure that was where she was going to end up if she didn't hold onto something.

Least the crowd was cheering, a show like always. And cheers meant she was winning, or at least Rock hadn't gone done either.

Lifting her head, focusing her eyes, she saw her partner slumped on the table, glass in hand and head sideways. Revy's grin would've made Big Sis whistle.

"Fuck yeah!" Rey cheered, throwing her hands up into the air. "Ain't a fucker in this shithole that can out drink me, Rock! Especially not some salaryman!" The crowd roared with approval.

Rock didn't say a word though, just kept his head down. Poor fucker. Probably needed some water before her keeled over.

"Drink this, now." Revy looked up to see Bao putting two pitchers of water on the table, pushing one towards Revy. He had that same greasy grimace he always had. "Just make sure you drain yourself before you go stumbling outta here. I don't need Dutch calling me asking where his employees went tomorrow morning." Now _that_ was a joke.

"Dutch ain't gonna call shit for us," Revy pushed out through a fiery throat. She grabbed the water though. Felt good just to touch. "Sooo much shit happened today he's probably making calls for everything from business to booty. Every 'b' in the dictionary."

"He'll want… us back," Rock managed to heave out in his collapsed state. Revy gave him wry eyes as she watched her partner bend and stretch to get his lips around the jug of water. Pathetic at everything but brains, like she said. "With John out there… he won't trust us alone for long."

"Shit, what do you know?" Revy tossed a shot glass over her shoulder. Someone might have yelled out, but with the now packed bar, there was no way to tell. Or care for that matter. "Dutch does business like the Terminator does murder. On point and always on the mind."

Revy put two fingers to her head as she said it, grinning like a wolf at Rock's beat red face. Like he actually took a beating. If that had happened, someone in the bar would've been covered in red instead.

"If John's dangerous… like you said… being alone… bad." Rock looked like he was doing the hardest pushup of his life on the table. Guess the vodka hit him harder than he thought. So much for the strength of a salaryman.

"Yer missin' a few words there, Rock," Revy commented, pointing at him with the same fingers that were up against her head. "Take it slow and just let the pain wash over ya. Wick's a hellofa killer, but he ain't stupid. Attackin' a bar ain't his style." At least she hoped it wasn't.

They hadn't exactly done a lot to get on his good side. No telling what a pissed off serial killer would do, at least when you knew you were the top dog in the world's pen.

"Then let's go… for gets bad…" Rock's hand flung itself out like a man throwing a life vest into the water. It flailed just like Revy had seen them do a dozen times before.

She shook it off of her the moment it touched her. Guess Rock was still lucky, because Revy knew she was too drunk to break his fingers without the rest of his hand.

"Fuck that up Buddha's ass!" Revy yelled as she jerked her arm out of Rock's hand. He was lucky she didn't shoot his fingers off. "I told ya, we're stayin' here until I feel like I got the bad end of a gang-bang! Keep that shit up and maybe I'll stay till we turn this shithole into one!" She pointedly ignored the look of disgust on Rock's face.

"Crazy two-guns into kinky shit, sounds like." Revy groaned as she let her head loll back. She knew that voice drunk as a mule. Better yet, she knew that voice if she was deaf.

And upside down with her head pulled back, she saw the Korean woman waltzing into the Yellowflag, stupidly long bangs of her eyes and a smile about as sharp as her knives. Too bad her brains were just the opposite.

"Aaaand Chinglish is here!" Revy threw her arms out at the Asian, her foot under the table's surface keeping her balanced. No amount of alcohol could stop what she'd been doing since she was a kid. "What kind of fucking are you here for? Drinks, booze, or solo acts?"

Even upside down, Revy could take a bit of pride in the revolting grimace the Triad member gave her. Always did her heart good to piss of a bitch.

"No here for fucking!" She spoke as she walked forward, stopping when her waist was even with Revy's head. That was too far for her, Revy finding herself leaning forward out of disgust. That was one way she wouldn't swing, even drunk enough to sink a sailor. "Here for information. To relax."

"Those ain't the same thing, Chinglish," Revy noted with a wave of her hand. "Get a lesson in basic speech 'fore you come _fucking_ around like some blue-balled rapist." She could feel the heat off the woman. It felt good.

"Need relax _because_ of info dumb whore!" She yelled at Revy. Too loud, too close, and too stupid a comment to make. Revy felt her thumb working her Berreta before she even looked up at the stupid Chink.

"The shit do ya need to relax 'fore?" Revy pushed through her lips. She just needed _one_ more insult, then she'd have enough justification to blow the bitch's brains out. Mr. Chang could forgive her, probably. She'd have witnesses at least.

"She probably had a shit day like the rest of us, bitch." Revy's head swung all the way forward, slamming into the table. She knew that voice and boy was it the _last_ voice she wanted to hear right now.

When she said she wanted to feel the bad end of a rape, she meant the physical, not the mental. She had enough of the latter already in her life.

"Fuck off, Eda," Revy groaned into the table. God knows if she could be heard through the now filled Yellowflag. The sound of a chair being pulled out told her that she wasn't. "Can't I waste myself the way I want to force once?"

"Fuck no," the American broad spoke up, probably with her usual shit-eating grin. She did sound like she loved her shit. "Specially after the shadowy shit I've seen today. Shit, I'm only pissed now cause you beat me to the hardline."

"Oh yeah?" Revy asked, tilting her heat till her bleary eyes made out the American hat on the pseudo-nun, currently out of her habit. "And what's the bad day you had? Bet you a pistol mine was the same or worse."

"I have knives. I take bet." Chinglish spoke up, to Revy's _extreme_ distaste. The bitch needed to speak straight or not at all. There was no middle-ground with that.

"Shenhua, right?" Eda asked. They'd met. They'd had to have met. No way there were strangers in Roanapur, not after this long. "Unless you say some fucker damned enough to make Yolanda give a straight deal, you're gonna lose that bet."

Oh, that did sound bad. Still, Revy knew her had was higher. No fucker compared to the fucking boogeyman of killers.

"She's right ya know?" Revy spoke through grit teeth, head still resting on the table. "The shit we had to deal with today made me almost _wish_ for a fucking rape. Least I coulda killed the fucker if he tried." Cause there was no way Revy could touch John. It was like comparing a puppy to a German Shepard.

"No, I worst." In more ways than one, Revy smirked. "I have boss yell at me. Demand mean things. Tell me get info or get hung. Never that bad. That bad now." That one Revy could piece together, and that didn't sound pretty up there.

Chang was a monster in sheep's clothing, if the sheep were black as night and filled with demon blood. The fucker could take anyone in a gun fight and had enough connections to start a war with Big Sis.

If he was threatening lives, shit was going down.

"Yeah, well… lemme just get Rocky here ta tell you 'bout what a _fucking_ bad day it… was…" Revy's voice trailed as she twisted her head forward, only to see she was sitting across a vacant seat. "The fuck?"

Where did Rock go? No way in hell he'd go outta of here without her. The fucker had balls, but he'd straight-up diamonds to screw her over like that. And he knew it, or at least he'd better now it.

"Boy toy at bar. Have water." Revy followed Chinglish's dainty hand, seeing it pointing through the crowd.

Sure enough, there was Rock, holding another pitcher of water and something clasped in his hand. Probably pain meds. Like she said, all brains.

Looked like he was about to lose his though, what with how wide his eyes were and stiff his neck. Revy knew he'd just needed to buff out a big one to put him to sleep, let the hair of the dog to its thing in the morning.

"Ey! Rocky boy!" Eda, the bitch perked up at Rock's return, holding her arm out to doubtlessly snag him into her breasts. Revy knew she'd have to shoot Eda to stop her, and she couldn't trust her aim right now.

That was why she couldn't help but smirk when Eda backed up. Didn't take an experienced drunk to know Rock looked two heaves away from upending his gut. But man, Revy _knew_ she'd pay top dollar to see the American bitch get sweltered in puke.

It'd easily be the best entertainment in Roanapur, minus a solid shagging.

"… Uh, sorry Eda," Rock spoke up, sitting down slowly. Probably afraid he'd fall off the chair. Man, talk about a light-weight. Guest Japs were like hurricanes when it came to drinking. Destructive all at once, then boring as shit. "Just… head's throbbing."

"Jap drink for shit," Chinglish spoke up behind Revy, causing her to click her tongue. Always pissed her off when she had to agree with bitches like that. "Sides, you no need drink. _I_ need drink. Shit day needs shit drink." This shit again?

"Chinglish, for the last fucking time," Revy started, grasping the edge of the table as she turned around. Had to keep her head straight somehow. "Your day was a fucking walk across the rainbow compared to the shit Rock and I had to deal with."

"Willin' to bet I'd trade ya," Eda, the second bitch of the flock, spoke up. "Cause nothin's worse than see the almighty Yolanda tellin' ya shit and expecting gold."

"Oh yeah?" Revy was fucking done. They'd be talking like gossiping girls all night if they kept this up. And she had shit to do and people to fuck. "Hey, Rock!"

"Huh!" Rock shot forward, red rim of his eyes staring at her wide, but about as focused as one could be after chain shooting six shots of straight vodka. "W… what is it?"

"Settle this bullshit," Revy waved her hand at the dogs on hind-legs. "Why don't ch'ya tell them all 'bout the little visitor we got today? Ya know, the man Dutch had ta basically tell ya all 'bout?"

Rock shook a little at her words, it made Revy grin. At least he had the brains to realize how fucking wicked John _Wick_ was. His eyes kept looking over his shoulder like he was gonna see the boogeyman there. Actually, not a bad bet with that mad killer.

"It was… John Wick." Rock spoke, head swinging back slowly and hand reaching for the pitcher of water.

Despite the damning name, the only half the bitches present reacted. Revy blamed the bastards and sluts around the rest of the for making too much noise to be heard.

"Shit. Bull shit. No shit worth naming." Chinglish spouted off. Guess she knew what the fuck was up. "Mr. Chang told me find info bout that man. You don't know. I _don't_ need talk to you!"

Wait, what?"

"Mr. Chang sent ya here to look for Wick?" Revy felt her head spinning. Probably the vodka, yeah. "Why the hell he'd send you for that? Like sending a fuckin' puppy ta fight a bear." And that was her being generous.

"That's the same fucker that talked ta Yolanda!" Eda now, getting Revy to spin around. Not fast, or else she'd up hurl on her. That'd only be half as funny as Rock doing it, cause Revy didn't want a fist-fight with a puke covered bitch. "It took me the whole damn day ta get her to fess up his name, and she wouldn't stop smilin' like a druggy with it!"

"No shit…" Revy let out, imagining John Wick going to Rip-Off Church. Well… Yolanda had been in Roanapur for longer than Dutch, so it _kinda_ made sense. "How'd you keep your shorts dry with that fucker 'round?"

"The fuck?" Eda asked, shaking her head dismissively. "Didn't talk to the bum. All the douche did was talk in some blah-blah code that Yolanda picked up like a fresh fifty." Revy was like fifty percent sure 'blah-blah' was her mind talking.

"Why hot shit? Why be scared?" Chinglish asked. Revy felt her head get heavy again. Guess neither of the bitches new power when they heard about it.

"John Wick is the scariest motherfucking killer in the god-damn world." Revy took a gulp of her water, letting it wrinkle down, else she really would puke. "Puttin' it in worlds both of ya will get, the dude took out two entire fuckin' gangs in New York, in a _night_. Ask your owners if ya doubt that."

"I say more bullshit," Eda spoke up, probably for Chinglish. "No one does that shit. It's _impossible_ , as in he'd be a dead man walking."

"Fucker did it, bitch!" Revy yelled at the blonde broad. "And ask _Chinglish_ why Mr. Chang is pissed enough to threaten people if John Wick ain't a big deal!" She pointed a finger at the Triad whore, who wrinkled her nose. Pretty princess bitch.

"Mr. Chang cautious, not scared, ho!" She had her hands on her hips. "Be ready for bad things. Not bad idea." Kay, yeah, but it was if ya poked a sleeping dragon!

"Rock, back me up on this!" Revy turned towards her partner, seeing him with his eyes over his shoulders again. The hell! "The fuck is back there? Some hot ass ya wanna pull into a booth?" She'd shoot the whore if there was one.

"Huh? No! No!-Hrgh!" Rock stood up, only to slam himself back down. The vodka wasn't working well with his lies. Guess everyone had a lie detector of some kind.

So, there was a whore Rock had eyes on? Guess Revy had to put her guns to someone tonight.

"Yeah, sure, sit tight Rocky," Revy let out, standing up as much as her legs would let her. "I'ma goin' to wreck the Yellowflag again, this time with bitch blood." She wobbled on her feet, but she began to push her way to the bar.

Most of the bastards in the place knew not to get in her way. Blow up anything enough times and even a monkey knows that fucking with you is bad for its health. She just had to prove that now on the whore-bag that tried to get in Rock's pants.

"Hey! Bao!" Revy shouted as she got the bar's edge, a nice little gap being made for her. "Who'se lookin' at Rock?" The bartender just gave her the usual look, the one that scream 'the fuck is wrong with you'. "He wasn't lookin' right, so I gotta smash in the face that did that, ya know?"

"You're in for a rough night then," Bao returned, sneering like he owned the place. Guess he did technically. "Cause the alcohol isn't something ya drink to look better." Well that was a point. Still, she knew one-for-one. And the alcohol wasn't the one that made Rock look like that.

"Well someone was fuckin' with him," Revy pointed out, leaning on the bar counter. "So just point out tha bitch and I'll be goin'… goin'…" Her eyes scanned the bar stools and landed on someone who didn't belong.

Wasn't a whore, not even a slut. Wasn't a woman at all. It was something that made Revy's alcohol drowned mind feel clear as day, and cold as ice.

She was looking eye to eye with John Fucking Wick.

He had on a new suit, a new suit and a fucking disgustingly bad hat, but with the same beard and straight gaze that she saw earlier. The same gaze that said 'I could kill you and they'd help me burn the body.'

A glass of alcohol was in his hand, held up as he glared at her over it. He wasn't moving, he wasn't talking, but he looked like one hell of a cool glass of water. Revy felt like the iceberg that was surrounded by it.

Her tongue moved uselessly in her mouth, swirling as she tried to wet her pallet, something to keep her from making a deadly mistake. Attacking was a mistake, talking was one, too. Maybe leaving?

That… that was probably what Rock did, just turn and walk away. John Wick… wouldn't kill her here, not without a reason. So… she should leave.

Her hands pushed off the counter, eyes tracking John as she stepped back into the crowd. He kept his gaze on her as well, watching as she let the useless bodies separate them. When he was out of eye-sight she turned hers back to her partner.

It took only a glance at Rock for her to get why he looked spook. No big wonder if he thought the same. Couldn't same the same for the bitches intruding on them.

"Now what's up with you?" Eda asked, the bitch looking at her like she had some grand plan going on in her head. Nothing up there but cum and buckets. "You're lookin' like you shat yourself at the counter? Got something you wanna confess?" She could eat shit with that grin, that was for sure.

"Quiet bitch," Revy just growled out, sitting down as she kept her fingers tight and eyes on the location of the bar. If she was gonna be shot, she wanted to see the fucking gun. "Just… shut up.."

"Why bitch so quiet?" Chinglish asked now. "No bitching from bitch. Not like you. Speak up!" Revy didn't want to. She didn't have a _clue_ what Wick's trigger was.

"Please don't be so loud," Rock now, speaking like he knew what to say. Wasn't entirely wrong, Revy knew, but hell if these two would get it. "We just… saw something bad." That was like saying a Draganov Sniper was a BB-Gun.

"Bad, huh? A whore stacked enough ta through you off?" Eda asked. Revy almost wanted dare her to go up and say that. But she didn't want to get killed by a raging fucking demon. "C'mon, you're the only ones bein' quiet, and it ain't nearly as nice as I'd thought it'd be."

"I said _shut the fuck up!_ " Revy shouted now, slamming her fist on the table. It got Eda to jump, but that was about it.

Cussing and screaming were par for the course in Yellowflag. No way was anyone gonna turn around for anything less than gunfire. Tonight was _not_ the night she wanted to prove that.

"Geez Revy, calm your tits and ass," Eda waved off. "Stop actin' like I kicked your clit." If that meant the fucking monster at the bar was an illusion, she'd take it. Maybe kill Eda afterwards, but it was a hell of a trade.

"He was at the bar." Revy almost flipped the table at Rock when he spoke. "John Wick is, up there now. I… we both saw him. Saw me." He chugged his water. Wasn't gonna make him forget anything.

Then again, knowing her partner, he was probably trying to sober up faster than any god would allow.

"Dumb man at the bar?" Now _that_ Revy wished John heard. Seeing Chinglish getting capped would be gold. Then again, she'd probably be going with her. Not a fun ride to hell. "I talk then. Mr. Chang ask, I give."

"No!" Rock shot up. Of course he did, the fucking pacifist. "Don't! If… If what Dutch and Revy have said is true, that'll be extremely dangerous!"

"Be quiet Jap!" Chinglish fired back. "Mr. Chang ask, I deliver. No discussion!" Then Chang was gonna have a _lot_ to tell the rest of the Triads come morning.

Cause there was no way John Wick was going to…

John wick was… walking by them.

Revy looked up and saw John Wick walking right behind Rock.

Not towards him, thank whatever god was glancing at her at the moment, but behind him. Just… past them. Rock must've seen her staring, cause he turned to stare as well.

No mistaking it, not after the near brown-pantsing experience this morning. It was still John Wick, in a suit that looked way better and a hat that was even worse than the fucking rag. Just… walking past them.

No threat, no gun, nothing… It had to be a trap.

"Hey, that him?" Eda asked, pointing at John. Revy would've slapped her, if Jon wasn't doing it with her eyes. Oh, yeah.

John had stopped and was staring at them, at Eda.

Revy couldn't tell what he was thinking, but there was no way it was good. No killer like John Wick, fucking terrifying enough to have Mr. Chang and Balalaika steering clear of him, would stop and think about anything else other than how to fuck up someone who insulted them.

And Jesus Christ, saying nothing, even in a bar as loud as hurricane, wasn't easy on the ears. It made Revy's arm itch.

"You big man? You Mr. Chang mad at?" Chinglish now, looking at him presumably. Revy didn't want to turn around and check. "You no big. You small fry. Why Mr. Chang want you?"

Revy scraped her fingers over the table as she watched Wick stare at the Triad member. His eyes were narrowing, his gaze focusing.

He was going to attack. He had to be.

John Wick was planning, right now, on how to kill them all. He was going to kill them and Revy knew she had about as much chance as a fight against Mr. Chang or the entire fucking Hotel.

Rock was dead as stone, and he'd be deader than that if a fight broke out. If that maid could kick the ass of everyone up and down the way, than John Wick was gonna turn the Yellowflag into a flaming pit.

Revy had to get ready, she had to do something. Because if she didn't, he would.

John Wick could kill Eda and Chinglish before she raised a gun, then take Rock hostage. He could roll a grenade under the table. He could murder them all with four double-taps with whatever gun he had!

But then, he walked away.

Revy blinked, shook her head, and almost fell out of her chair. That was _not_ what he was supposed to do. The most badass killer in the world? Walking away from insults?

He was supposed to pull out a knife, or a gun, or say something that was gonna make the bitches heel like sluts. Not… nothing!

Revy watched him, feeling her every once of the respect for the man die faster than the Nazis on that warship or whatever.

This was John Wick? The fucker was taking insults like slabs of bacon. It was fucking pathetic! He didn't even give a threat or glare! He was just walking away like it was a Tuesday. It was Friday night!

"Pathetic," Eda spoke up, snorting. "How the fuck Yoslanda had respect for that is impossible to get." Revy had to agree with the blonde bitch now. She just… wasn't getting it.

Was this like that kid's game, Telelphone or whatever? Benny tried telling her about it on a drunk stint once. Made about as much sense as putting fifty calls in semi-automatic pistols. Break your arm trying.

Revy just watched him go, looking at legend that was about true as hell.

 ** _VRRRR!_**

And then she watched a Russian Jeep pull up.

It came out of nowhere so fast Revy was sure it was her brain halting for a sec. She had to shake her heard to make sure she was seeing what she really was. But even on shake three, the jeep was still there.

That was Hotel Moscow, no doubt about it. That was Hotel Moscow's jeep with a fifty-caliber mounted machine gun on the back. That was Hotel Moscow's jeep that was pulling right up to John and coming to a dead stop.

"Oh shit," Revy felt herself whispering. Something bad was _gonna_ go down. Guess with how he was acting, it was gonna be the "legend" John Wick. The bar got dead quite to match. Guess they knew when she was up, too.

"The hell is the Hotel doing here?" Eda asked. Bad question. More like how the fuck did Big Sis figure out that John _was_ here. Then again, this was Big Sis they were talking about. She knew shit Revy didn't even dream about.

"Fuck up white boy, that what," Chinglish answered. Wasn't wrong. Didn't look like it'd even be hard, given the half-assness of John right now.

The doors to the cab opened, four of Big Sis's men stepping out. John just held still as they got out, one coming around from the back and two stepping out towards him. And one of them was on the gun.

Thing was, these weren't the guys Balalaika had helping move crates at the Lagoon Company after a job. These were the fuckers that Revy saw holding guns and guard. They at least looked the part, dressed up and decked out to the teeth.

These were _not_ fucking new-bloods. Big Sis was sending premium cuts over here.

 _Fuck_. This wasn't them coming to drink. They were fucking here for John.

"John Wick." One of them said, one of the goons Revy didn't talk to a lot. A look at Rock told him he did though. He was better with faces than she was.

The "legend" didn't say anything back. He just stood there with his stupid old suit and god-shit hat. He wasn't even reaching for a gun! He was the only _fucking one!_

The dude who came out of shotgun had some Russian-modded Uzi, the other guys had to have the usual pistols. And she was _not_ about to forget about the heavy artillery. They looked ready for a fucking fight, minus their lack of combat greaves.

"Come with us. The Captain wishes to speak with you." His accent was thick, but there was no way John was going to miss what the dude meant.

Balalaika wanted to see him, and these guys were the fucking hearse for his body. If he didn't get fucked on the streets, Big Sis was gonna fuck him in a Russian camp.

* * *

There was no way out. No way out that got John what he needed.

He had moments to decide.

Four soldiers, Russians. Either ex-military or KGB. Each had small-arms with two having semi-heavy munitions. They were too far to run at. He had no gun.

He had seconds to decide.

They were not firing because they wanted to protect civilians. Leaving with them was not an option, as he would not survive. He needed to survive.

He had a second to decide.

First soldier was closest, unprepared from the left. Kept alive, he'd be a shield. Flanking friend needed to be foot shot for speed. It would offer 2-3 seconds of disorientation. Then the semi-heavy munitions needed to be taken out. Priority shots. Then the two front soldiers could be executed.

It was good enough.

John chose.

"Give me your-" The Russian reached forward with his free hand, grasping for John's elbow. As he did, John reached out and slapped the extended gun. Minimal movement and force.

Once contact was made. He leaned forward and slipped his hand in, pushing the gun towards the flanking comrade and depressing the soldier's finger.

 **BANGBANG!**

"Gah!" John heard the Russian soldier fall to the ground, the one he grappled with not moving to disorient John with blows to his head. He was too slow. Too ill-prepared.

John slammed his head into the Russian's mouth, quickly following with a blow to his hyoid bone as he reeled back from the blows. All attention the Russian offered was now for his wounds.

John easily wrenched the gun from him. Tokarev, 7.62mm caliber with 12 rounds, modified. Eleven shots remaining.

He quickly shoved the injured man's shoulder, spinning him around. His arm immediately slipped under the Russian's shoulder and surrounded the man's throat, placing him in a modified Nelson. Restricted movement at risk of further injury.

 _Chi-_ _ **Chink**_

His ears heard the heavy artillery of the back van being cocked. They would hesitate minimally before firing. Russians cared not for bodies, but results. He would have 1-2 seconds to fire.

"Engag-" the Russian atop the heavy artillery yelled, aiming at John through his sights. Well-trained, but unpracticed. Too long for engagement, too open for artillery combat.

 **BANG!**

John fired once, iron sights of the Tokarev pistol aimed at the man's left knee. Debilitating injury was gaurenteed. The gore of impact was immediate. Wasn't lethal.

Four combatants still remained. One restrained, two recovering, and the last now engaging.

The man had waited for assumption the heavy artillery would engage. With the operator temporarily disabled, he quickly stepped in. Minimal hesitation, high-training, well-organized.

Ill-prepared.

The Russian was raising a small-arms automatic weapon at John. Quick fire, low accuracy. Required a moment to aim properly. Well-trained soldiers a quarter of that. These were well-trained soldiers.

John lifted his feet from the ground, pulling the man he was holding and himself down to the ground. He had eyes on the man the distance he fell. It was not a move often trained for. The able-Russian was not ready.

 **BANG!** John fired a round at the man, gun aimed over the head of the disabled Russian he was still holding in a restrictive manner.

The round hit 1mm above the sellion of his nose. It was an instant neutralization of the combatant. He was too far removed from the other three targets to need worry of his weaponry being lifted.

John swung his hand over his head, twisting on the ground until his arm was parallel with it. The chamber of the pistol was now aimed at the first Russian he had fired at, the man just taking aim with his weapon now. Too slow.

 **BANG!**

John fired again, hitting the man through the frontal section of his skull, likely exiting through his neck. Instant neutralization of the enemy, leaving only two.

The risk was the disoriented Russian at the heavy artillery. Heavily trained meant dedicated to remounting the weapon. He was the priority.

Releasing the injured man, john quickly rose until he had one foot and one knee on the ground. A solidified stance for straight shooting. His hands wrapped bout the pistol as he aimed at the man at the artillery.

The man was having difficulty standing, one leg disabled and vehicle likely modified to holster the weaponry, not designed around it. Footing was uneven, and therefore, difficulty to maintain when footing was compromised.

John capitalized.

 **BANG!**

"GAH!" The man shouted as John shot his opposite knee, crippling him. The man fell backwards out of the truck, landing with a dull thud on the ground behind it. He was no longer a priority, but he was not neutralized.

That left two targets to be eliminated.

John stood to his tallest, walking over the man still clutching at his throat, thrashing violently. The Tokarev pistol moved over his temple.

 **BANG!**

A through-and-through shot to the temples. The disabled Russian was neutralized. That left only the crippled Russian behind the armament.

Likely armed with a small arms fire, but without cover. He would fire indiscriminately if John approached. A distraction before a kill shot was necessary.

John quickly approached the armed vehicle, hearing the man crawling on the dirt beyond his vision. It gave him a location to aim at. Eyes were not necessary. Blind fire to reduce risk, but not guarantee kill shot.

 **BANG!**

John fired his gun just as quickly as he wrapped it about the end of the Russian vehicle. He could hear the impact of flesh, showing a hit. But the lack of vocal output implied a kill shot, but it was unconfirmed.

He conducted a ghost peak, seeing the man lying on the ground behind the truck, unmoving. His gun was out of his hand, at his side and unflexed. If not dead, still not able to fire.

John approached with the pistol, raised aimed at the man as he slowly drew closer. Two shots were confirmed on his legs. A third was on the man's chest. Too low for a kill shot. He wasn't dead.

 **BANG!**

John placed another shot through the sellion of his nose. A confirmed kill.

He ejected the magazine from the pistol. Three rounds remaining. Kneeling, he quickly took the sidearm of the dead man, doing the same to his gun. A full magazine, matching calibers. He pocketed the magazine into his pocket.

The combatants were dead, he was unharmed, but his primary goal was now ruined.

It would be impossible to talk to any sailors or captains now. No one would approach him within distance of hearing the fight. Even in Roanapur, bullets ended conversation.

John turned towards the Yellowflag, looking into the cantina.

Nearly all present had guns trained on him.

His eyes quickly assessed and counted, marking what he could see from a distance. Despite gender or stature, all were armed with small-arms weaponry. Nothing larger than a Ruger Blackhawk revolvers, but all with enough firepower and caliber to kill.

None had fired though. John had counted the bullets in the fight and no bullets had originated from the cantina. All had come from his gun. They had not fired and still did not fire.

It was not to preserve the life of the Russians. But they did not look to approach him either. That meant they were not looking to kill him or capture him.

They were telling him to go away.

His dog was inside, upstairs and out of their sight. The likely route out of Roanapur was in there, but no one would speak with words. He could only leave.

He could only leave another failure behind.

John did not have the firepower to take the cantina. Too many bodies and too few rounds. There were likely killers present, well-trained as well. If he tried, he would die. He had no plan to enter, and therefore could not enter.

He had to leave. He had to leave now before they fired.

John walked around the Russian vehicle, stopping at the man who had exited from the driver's door. He reached down, patting pockets and finding the keys to the vehicle. It was his way out.

Another glance towards the Yellowflag confirmed none present were approaching him. It was likely fear they that kept them away. For now, that was just. He could escape with their fear.

He could leave all that he had searched for behind and return later.

He had to.

John stepped over the Russian's body, entering the vehicle. Manual transmission, three gears. Inferior power for on-terrain speed, likely poor handling, but with durability designed for heavy combat. A shield if necessary, or cover for a moment.

The engine roared to life as John twisted the keys, his foot finding the clutch and hand on the stick. From park to gear one, he set the car in motion, driving down the dirt road with the poor lamination of the headlights.

He had failed again.

He had started another war. Now in a city of thieves and murderers.

He was a fool.

* * *

Revy could've killed him. She should've killed him.

She had her gun trained on the fucker through the whole fight, especially when he was done. When he was standing above _four_ of Big Sis's men with their guns in his hands, she could've killed him.

But she didn't. No one did.

A bar full of killers and murderers and not a single fucking one of them pulled the trigger. Didn't mean shit how many guns were on the dude. Bullets killed, not guns.

Guns shot, bullets flew, and John Wick murdered.

 _Four_ Russian mobsters, _trained with_ and _by_ Balalaika, by _Big Sis_. John Wick, the _fucking_ Boogeyman, had taken them out like they were just punks. The fucker didn't even _pretend_ that it was hard. He looked fucking _bored_.

He looked so fucking bored he drove off like it was a fucking Sunday-afternoon drive. The number of shits he gave to the whole thing was lower than what Revy gave for Chinglish's words!

And as if that wasn't enough to turn her from gang-bang drunk to Christian-devote sober, then the silence of the damn bar was.

Only time the place was ever quiet was when everyone inside was dead. Now it just sounded like it.

They all had their guns out, fucking everyone from her to the creeps that hung out at the titty-bar. Even fucking Chinglish had a knife in her hand like it was gonna do shit to _John-Fucking-Wick._

"Fuck me…" Eda finally spoke, looking at the retreating car. Revy just took it as a sign to swallow grit her teeth. "He fucking… fucked them… pretty much pissed on their graves!"

"Fucking hell and all that's there."

"Jesus Christ."

"Alluh Iblis."

"No good. No good!"

The bar started to pick up, guns being put away about as carefully as a veteran gang-member handled a whore. They were shaking, all of them were shaking.

Jesus Christ, _she_ was shaking.

It was like watching Mr. Chang go to town on a bunch of wannabes at the Lagoon Company, only this time it was with fucking _real_ soldiers and not punks with over-compensation issues.

"You! Bitch!" Revy turned to see Chinglish staring at her, snarling like this was somehow _her_ fault. "You talk now! How bastard whitey do that?!" Revy felt herself snarl _like_ a bitch. A bitch with a heat for guns!

"How the _fuck_ would I know, _bitch!?_ " Revy yelled, standing till the chair go knocked over. "That's the _fucker_ I was scared of! If I had half a fucking ounce of know-how to the magic _he_ just pulled, I wouldn't be getting ready for another round of shots!"

Oh yeah, she needed that now. Screw the gang-bang. She was going to make herself feel like a Cartel sex-slave for the night. Fucked up until up was down.

"Balalaika's gonna be all over this place soon," Eda spoke up. To who, Revy didn't give a shit. "She's gonna tear it like a new asshole on an American twat."

"No… she won't…" Now Revy looked over. Rock was talking, and it sounded like the one good muscle in his body was being put to use. "Balalaika tracks her vehicles. She'll find John because he took her car. But if he's as experienced as everyone says… saw… he'll lead to a trap." A trap?

"Whoa Rock, chill the fuck out," Revy turned over and put her hands on the table, leaning over to her partner. "Are you talkin' 'bout John attackin' Big Sis?" No matter who the fuck it was, _that_ was a shit idea.

"No, not directly," Rock went on. "But maybe… I-I don't know." His head hit the table with his palms over the back of it. "I don't know anything about him. I-I've never even seen him before today." Call that the one blessing God ever gave the Jap.

"Bal-bitch will attack," Chinglish spoke up now. "She no play dumb when hurt. She bite back, _hard_. City be a shit show now."

"Shit show?" Revy asked. A chuckle pushed past her lips. "Chinglish, shit show ended when Wick _body-bagged_ four of Hotel Moscow's _guns_. We're skippin' right on past to _shit-storm_ with a piss topping."

"Fuck this, I'm outta here," Eda spoke up, pushing the table hard enough to jar Rock and Revy. She snarled at the nun-for-hire. "Gonna pay up every day with Yoslanda to get the shade on that bastard."

She was gone before Revy could say a word. Good, less noise to worry about.

 _"WHAT!"_ Revy looked up to the bar. Rock did, too.

Bao was holding the phone, looking at it like death had just told him he had a few seconds to live. If he was giving the bad new to Big Sis, he had less than that.

"Balalaika," Rock spoke up. Looked like good minds thought alike afterall. "She's likely giving orders to shut the bar. Reducing collateral and profit."

"Me go then," Chinglish spoke up. Revy didn't even give her a glance. "Mr. Chang know now. This bad, shit hole bad."

That left her and Rock at the table with empty shot glasses, and Revy with a _really_ strong desire to pay Balalaika for a job. If it got her out of the city for the week, that'd be good.

No profit or worth in trying to kill demons like John Wick. Better off cutting loses and running away.

"Hey! Hey!" Bao yelled again, this time waving his hands. Revy squinted at him, and the rest of the bar for that matter. Guess there was something to say. "I… I-I got, um… orders from Balalaika."

"We don't work for Fry-Face!" Some dumb soul yelled up. He'd be dead by day's end… night's end, whatever it was.

"We aren't lookin' for jobs after that fucking mess!" Someone else yelled up, probably pointing at the bodies on the street. Bad move two.

"She's paying big!" Bao kept yelling. He's probably worried about the bar. Good fear. Revy was just afraid for her life. "She's offering a cut of that man's bounty!"

Bounty? On Wick?

The Yellowflag took into another talking storm, but Revy just had eyes on Rock. His gears were turning, she could tell. Where the hell they were spinning to, she had no idea. Just have to ask after this.

Still, had to be one hell of a top dog in the world to put a bounty on Wick, and still be alive for it.

"What's the bounty?" Bad question, you were supposed to ask the cut. What a novice. Big bounties could always be cut down to beer-worth sums. Not even enough to get a glass of good vodka. One percent of one-hundred kay could pay her rent for a few months at best.

"Seven Million Dollars!"

Revy heard glass shatter. That was big enough.

"Fucking hell." Revy looked at Rock. Him saying that was a big deal. She didn't need his brains to know why.

Roanapur was gonna be fucking warzone by morning. Every fucking member of the Yellowflag and their lackey's looking for John? With the Hotel and Triads probably joining, thanks to Chinglish?

"We gotta go," Revy spoke up, standing from the table. Her every instinct told her staying within a thousand fucking miles of Roanapur was as bad of an idea as watching a nuclear bomb go off. "Rock, move ass, we _gotta_ fucking go!"

It shook him, and he stood up to follow her, pushing through the crowd of suicidal maniacs. They were all gonna die for that money. Revy knew it.

Problem was, there was no way John knew who was gunning for him.

And if there was killer like him with a bounty. He wouldn't be leaving witnesses behind.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

And now the plot starts to roll…

For this chapter, I wanted the following:

Rock's ability to read people like John Wick

John showing off his master-class skill against Russians

A growing alliance and network for John in Roanapur

Funny Yellowflag bar cussing


	5. Baba Yaga

No plan survived the battlefield, John knew this. It was why you only had goals and objectives for a battle, not a path. Paths were limiting, too strict. You needed a goal and an objective.

And he had failed his goal.

He had made it to the Yellowflag. He had waited until the necessary parties had arrived. He had maintained a low profile, learned about Roanapur, and secured safety for his dog. Objectives were met.

But he had failed to gain a ship.

He had failed to get the crew or captain of any ship to allow him passage on their vessel. He had failed to find a way to leave Roanapur. And now, he had failed to keep his low profile.

He had been noticed by Dutch's crew. He had been ousted by the Russians. And now, he had killed the same Russians in front of other killers and bounty collectors. Now they all knew who he was, and all would be aware of his contract.

Now they were all going to be looking for him, and because of it, far fewer captains or sailors would be willing to allow him entry. Worse, they may try and entrap him.

It was a failure, a colossal failure.

 **SMACK!**

He pounded on the wheel of the jeep as he drove, watching the roads as he reformed his plans. Except he couldn't think of an obvious or necessary exception. The roads were straightforward, mildly deserted, and lacking the markings like New York. His presence in Roanapur was now the opposite.

John was now clear, obvious, and marked for death with a high bounty for his death.

 **SMACK!**

He pounded the steering wheel again, teeth gritting as he did so. His goal hadn't changed, but the obvious means accomplishing it had.

Not just few, no captain or crew would accept him on board willingly. Taking a boat by force would leave it obviously marked and simple to follow. No ship going out of the bay was unassigned to one of the head gangs, and anyone he took would be simple to monitor and follow.

He had removed all the ways for him to simply leave the City of Thieves. Worse, he had just helped them find a new target.

 **SMACK! SMACK!**

John was a fool, a fool that had sealed his own fate once more.

 **SMACK!**

The thieves would come for him, the murderers were hunting him, and the assassins were eager to find him.

 **SMACK! SMACK SMACK SMACK!**

"GAAAAAAAAH!"

John yelled out as he slammed on the brakes of the jeep. It cried in protest as it stopped in the middle of the road. The dirt beneath the vehicle slid, kicking up dust in the night, light of the headlights blurring through it.

But when the car stopped so did John. It left him alone in the jeep, staring at white knuckles in silence, knowing his failure. Only the hum of the engine kept the silence of the night away.

He had failed, and now he needed a new plan. One that would get him out of Roanapur. Unseen was a secondary objective now. It risked too much to make it a priority.

And with the Russian Mob now following him, codenamed the Hotel Moscow, it would be near impossible. Escape was paramount regardless. He couldn't do the impossible again, not without help.

 _KRSHSHSHSHSHS_

John looked down in the jeep, seeing the old radio hooked up to it blare to life. Someone had set the frequency and was holding the switch. There was a connection.

Whoever made the connection didn't speak. Neither did John. It would be a risk to speak to someone he did know.

"… Hello John." He knew the voice, but that only increased the risk. No one else in the Hotel would speak in such a way, let alone speak to him. "I must say, this is not the way I expected our reunion to go, did you?"

John heard her words, and what he didn't hear. Like of ambience implied she was alone in her room, or with other carefully observing. The calmness implied security, likely a heavily bunkered room of her building.

"All these years between us and you still haven't lost your edge, killing some of my most loyal men without any effort." The information was relayed to her from someone at the Yellowflag. Maybe she had a spy present. Maybe she owned it. "You're name is still whispered by some men, a warning of a force beyond nature itself."

He knew his reputation, but he didn't care for it. He cared for what Balalaika was doing. It was obvious, the moment she spoke softly of her men's death, a faux calm meant to give a sense of peace to fleeing prey.

She was stalling him.

John left the radio alone, opening the jeep door. He shut off the lights, taking the keys as the engine died. The radio continued to blink, clearly working off of the power of the alternator.

"When news came that you killed Viggo, I honestly believed for a moment there was a spy attempting to trick me." Her voice was too amused. Something that didn't make sense without him talking.

But good news included information about him, about how to find or kill him. She had gained information during her pause for conversation.

Her men must be close. The jeep must have been bugged.

"However, report after report followed of your little… _purge_ of New York, wiping out nearly all of my fellow Russians." John looked over the jeep as he talked. He needed supplies. The Spetsnaz were well trained, so they always remained well supplied.

The pair of rifles and spare ammo in the back of the jeep were evident of that. He had no need for the heavy artillery. It would only slow him down. The hand-held radio would be worth the risk in weight.

"Did you know I once worked for Viggo? Early in my days, and his now that I think about it." Superfluous information, next to the knowledge that her men were coming. They would be armed for him. "Perhaps a little verbose for my tastes, but he was a loyalist, a man that fought while others fell. That's a quality I believe you shared."

Rifles with silencers, likely, perhaps a delayed deployment of a sniper. Risky, but when the Hotel owning the streets, it was a risk they could take.

That came with the guarantee of night-vision goggles. A clear advantage in abandoned streets. In the very least, the streets looked abandoned.

"As the details came in, and the contract for your followed, would you believe I began to understand, John? Oh, not just _how_ you did it, but _why_ you did it." John's hand stalled for a moment, only a moment, as he reached into the back of the jeep.

He had to prepare, and he was nearly done.

"They took something precious from you, something… you were promised." John did not think of what he lost. He thought only of what he needed. He needed to leave the jeep, now. "And as we know, for those who take without give, there is little left the world can offer them."

John had the pistol and rifle from the soldiers and jeep, two spare clips now for each. The weight showed they had enough ammo. Enough for him.

He also had a flashlight, a good counter to night vision, if he was able to surprise them. The radio would have to be ignored. He was out of pockets, and the trained soldiers would use an alternative frequency as soon as Balalaika was done talking.

"And now, John, we find ourselves at a crossroads." He undid the safety of the rifle, preparing it for a fight. "I may have been able to ignore the bounty. What happens away from Roanapur is hardly my business. By my men, John, they are my loyal soldiers. And their death, by your hands, demands blood from you."

John knew the sentiment well. He had taken the same action before. He doubtlessly would again. Now that the world was after him. Even in this city of thieves.

Everyone from the hired gun to the bosses above. He had a target on himself from them all.

"It's a pity would couldn't share that toast again," she spoke sardonically. Not a lie, but not a true regret. An idea she pitied she couldn't see. Unimportant. "Perhaps we can when we meet up in hell. Sorry you'll have to wait for me." Confidence was always her strong suit.

It didn't matter to John, it was unimportant. Beyond his focus. He knew only what was important right now, and that were the men coming, and their leader who told them where he was.

John left the jeep, exiting the streets down an old alley, older by appearance in the light. It true age was impossible to tell. But it was dark, confined, and left him with two exits. Perfect for a trap.

She wasn't wrong about him. Balalaika rarely was. She was the youngest of the mob leaders John had ever worked with, and she had the teeth to match them all. Her men were loyal, her focus like his, and her tactics masterful.

But there was a difference, one more evident now than ever before.

Balalaika was a warlord with a thirst for blood. He was a killer being forced to drink.

They wouldn't be long now, and he was nearly prepared.

John needed to focus.

* * *

"Be careful, comrades, were are hunting game that makes Americans appear like pesky house flies." The soldier at the wheel of the jeep spoke. His focus was on the road ahead, not the men behind him.

The headlights were off as he drove, the engine modified to dampen noise. A stealth modification for seizing assets from the port, without alerting the snoozing guards. Helpful when the dirty jobs were too hard to trust a hired gun.

"Use the frequency given by the captain for comms. We must assume John Wick has procured a radio, and very likely knows our frequencies." It was part of the debrief given to them hours ago. Part of the critical intel to the danger of the man they were hunting.

No other words were spoken. They were unnecessary during route to an operation. It only risked exposure. Even in a city they owned, in territory they ruled, it was a risk they now couldn't afford.

They could not risk the ears of Baba Yaga listening for their approach.

It was a name they dared not think of as they traveled, a name in any sense but the target. The killer hired by Russians to kill the impossible, to do the unthinkable. A man who could kill one of their own as if he were the best of their own, and earn the respect of the Captain for it.

It was fear, proper fear, of that man that led them to be armed as they were.

They were not collecting payments from merchants in the side streets of the city, rounding up the dues for loans past due. They were hunting a killer of their own, but a killer madder than any dog or bear Russia had ever bore.

The jeep came to a slow stop, intentional to avoid noise. It was parked beneath a nearby building's overhang, hiding it in the shadows cast by the moon, hard, if not impossible, to see with the naked eye. It would due.

"You are a quarter click from target location. Commandeered vehicle has not moved," the voice spoke through their comms, the leader of their squad. "Repeat, no movement from target vehicle. Target Baba Yaga unverified at location."

Unverified, perhaps fled, perhaps immobile, perhaps a trap. A great deal of ifs that they had to prepare for.

But they were not Yellowflag fodder. They were the greatest Russia had ever produced in warfare. Questions did not stop them, they only slowed them down.

The jeep doors opened, the squad leader holding up his fist. His men waited for his command, silent as the sky above. Speaking would only compromise their position. They knew their orders.

 _'John Wick will likely be setting a trap at the jeep, perhaps a flash-grenade or an advantageous position.'_ Their Captain's words were well known to them all. ' _John fights with unmatched superiority in enclosed positions, making it likely he will be within a building, the obvious entrances covered._ '

The squad leader's hand raised two fingers, pointing to a high tower, overlooking the marked location. Two soldiers exited and approached, head-gear adorned and prepared. His fist shut and fell to the street side. The remaining soldiers falling out of the convoy in tandem with the command.

They split into remaining pairs, hugging the street and walking with weapons raised. Each one of them kept eyes on a different sector than the other. A Pangolin approach, as the Americans would call it. It was a loathsome approach for them to undertake.

' _John Wick is American trained, but knows Russian tactics far better because of his time working for their New York counterparts,_ ' Their Captain's wise words spoke again. ' _As such, we must adapt the tactics of our enemy, so John Wick will be… less prepared_.'

Their boots were near soundless on the ground as they walked, eyes focused ahead. Their training kept them quiet. It let them hear the far-off sounds of the braver men in the city party, and only the light scrapping of the cowards in their homes. They did not need to worry about either.

Only the boogeyman hiding among them.

" _Fire support prepared_ ," came the simple acknowledgement through their radios. It was recognized, and that was all the attention they gave the notice. It was not something to comment upon.

Comments were reserved for contact, or observation of the contact area. Until then, any noise would risk exposure. Exposure would risk death. The death of any man to an American, no matter his skill, was an insult.

' _John will likely have secured weaponry from Schwartz unit,'_ the Captain had warned them before, during the debrief. ' _The convoy lacked high-precision weaponry, but that is not to assume low accuracy on Wick's part. He is more capable then a machine in that regard._ '

Their Pangolin stance continued forward, their radios silent with chatter. Four men marching the streets and two above them. There were to be no prisoners in this exchange, and only one dead man.

And up ahead, the grave site was clear. Their abandoned jeep, still stained with the blood of their comrades, sitting alone in the dark.

The unit leader raised a fist, and all stopped. They waited as he put his fingers to his mic, speaking softly into the radio. They waited for orders to come through. But no Russian pride filled or full of shame, did nothing as they waited.

From a distance, they surveyed the scene, taking note of what the Boogeyman of their organization may have done. Their vision, enlightened by their masks, helped greatly.

"No evident cut in the fuselage line." One of them commented, his eyes seeing no damage or expose liquid about the jeep. It went unsaid that it lowered the chance of a bomb. Any demolitions expert would make use of the fuel.

"Heavy artillery uncompromised, cannot confirm presence or absence of secondary tools." The heavy artillery was evident, and impossible to miss. But they would need to open the rear doors to observe all the guns typically held in the convoy. They could not until orders were given.

" _Confirmed, comrade. Secure site and confirm seized weaponry_." Their orders were taken with no question.

' _Be prepared at the contact zone, as John will likely be keeping eyes on it._ ' Their Captain's words continued to ring true. ' _He is reactionary in nature, like a highly trained insurgent, acting as events happen.'_

Two men kept eyes on the alleys and buildings, watching as their respective partners, approached. Their guns never lowered, muzzle and sights on the steel. Their eyes peaked over carefully, quickly once they had breached the sides. They could not risk a trap.

But so far, nothing. Only some missing guns in the back.

"Confirmed absence of 9A-91 and one magazine. KS-23 confirmed present." One of their comrades noted the missing guns. Both inaccurate, but the shotgun more so than the semi-auto rifle. This John Wick did not like power, it seemed.

" _No contact seen_." Their higher position spoke, taking note of the surrounding area. It created an unnerving situation, for the average killer. But a Russian man would not be deterred by a simple chill. This John Wick would need more metal.

 _'However, to not think of him like some rebel in the desert.'_ The Captain's words spoke again, a reminder to their arrogance, surrounded by cheap killers and unskilled mercenaries. John Wick was neither of those.

"Confirm presence, sound of." Came the order in their radios. It was an odd order but given the chill of the Captain and danger of the night, perhaps they were confirming the tool integrity.

It was inconsequential. Call names were a Spetsnaz true name in the heart of an operation.

"Leonid 1," came their leader.

"Leonid 2," came his partner.

"Pavil 1," spoke another.

"Pavil 2," spoke his partner.

" _Vasilij 1_ ," came their support fire.

…

And the second never came.

" _Enemy Con-bzzzzzzzzzzzz"_ The vehicle was abandoned without another thought. The call for retreat was unneeded. Only orders of where to go.

" _Return! Return! John Wick has neutralized Vasilij 1 and 2_!" Their boots beat like thunder now, covertness abandoned. If they were to risk it again, John would be gone before they arrived.

They were now chasing the devil in their city. Yet, somehow, it felt like they were playing in his.

" _Use secondary frequency and pursue target in pairs! Engage with force!"_ The soldiers did as told as they ran at their fastest. Anything short of that would-be insurance of their death.

 _'He is more dangerous than anything we have ever seen before._ '

* * *

Two former Spetsnaz, operating as Sniper support. A routine extraction form for high-value targets, friendly or otherwise. John had operated against and with the same form dozens of times each.

It let him know that the sniper himself would not pay attention to the room, trusting his ally to alert him of anything even slightly off. It was why a silent takedown, a simple stab of the throat to prevent airflow, would leave the sniper exposed and alone from the rear.

It was a physical impossibility to move the sniper fast enough, from the secured position to the rear, before an enemy could shoot. It was the downfall of the high-precision weapons.

Perfect for maintaining sight and control of distant objects. Poor for managing close range assaults.

And the Russians knew that.

It was why John did not bother to take the sniper model into arms, not bothering to check the model. He knew Balalaika would go for high precision and caliber, enough to pierce his suit's overcoat easily. He also knew that the Spetsnaz soldiers that were not foolish enough to charge straight down the street.

Like the comrade he had killed first, they would be wearing night-assisted optics. Not heat-vision. It was too expensive and too difficult to tell parties apart. They would use that as they maneuvered through buildings or back-alleys. Avoiding the main street.

Their convoy was not something he needed to focus on. They would avoid it, knowing he would keep an eye on it.

John only had to be wary of the building he was in. The soldiers were fire quickly and without care now. They would no longer check for targets.

They were not the police, and even the police in the city of thieves cared nothing for the lives of others. His death to them was worth more than the death of a few citizens. Funny, because he was worth less than them alive.

John chambered a round into the Tokarev, replacing the bullet he had used on the now dead sniper. Two deaths, and by the radio check, four to go.

The radio was useless now, a new frequency already in use, not one Balalaika would have used before. She wouldn't risk him knowing it. She knew he was aware of the Russians frequencies. He was aware she was crafty and careful

But she was also ruthless. Balalaika wouldn't care about casualties or low-profile. She would attack publicly, indiscriminately, and like a KGB agent. Maximizing damage.

It meant the building wasn't safe.

John kept his focus, walking to the rear entry way he had entered from. It was a quick turn from there to the alleyway, a darkened sector of the poor buildings that littered the City of Thieves. It would be unsubstantial against the men Balalaika sent.

He was right in their armaments. Night-Vision headwear and superior fire. It meant the darkness wouldn't work. He only had the buildings. They also likely had armor piercing rounds, a precaution incase he was still in the jeep.

He was not, but the bullets would shred through the clay walls of most buildings just as easily. Worst yet, it was unclear how his suit would deal with the damage. It didn't matter. What mattered were their numbers.

Four of them, four soldiers trained under the same regiment as the Russian Army. Balalaika's loyal soldiers. They were not to be underestimated. Their preparation for his ambush was clear enough.

One soldier removed, and their command was instantly aware. It was troubling. They did not have access to satellites, likely, at least none to their name. Hijacked hardware, stolen good, but something that gave them recognition of one another.

It only meant he had to focus. Especially when he heard the boots beat down the road.

He hid himself behind a dumpster, foregoing even a look towards the passing soldiers. They were securing the scene, and that meant checking alleys, if only quickly. They would shoot on sight.

 **BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!**

John tilted his head at the noise. It wasn't directed towards him. Not even close. Likely checking fire, a preemptive attack on a likely position. Most likely the sniper's nest. He wasn't there, but they shot like he suspected they would.

They would move into the building next, to secure their target. Not all of them. They would need one to survey the scene. Possibly two, likely two.

He shut his eyes and listened, focusing on the sound of the boots across dirt. He could hear them move from the rough gravel to the rough stone, entering the building the nest was in. One pair, two… then a third. Three men inside.

One outside as well. He would be facing away from the building, trusting the search of his partners. He was still a soldier though, one likely given orders to shoot first and quickly. With is goggles on, his vision would be superb.

So, John would take advantage of that.

He reached into the pockets of his jacket, producing the flashlight from before. He held it in reverse of his left hand, the Tokarev pistol in the other. He stood quickly and turned, ensuring a shot if there was a target. There was none.

He approached to the end of the alley with his weapons ready, stopping to push his body against the building wall. He could hear the boots inside, only barely. They would finish their search soon enough. He had to act first.

John twisted from cover, aiming his gun and the flashlight up. In the same motion, he flicked the flash-light on, shining it forward.

It hit the goggles of the guard almost instantly. And as John predicted, the man twisted his head at the offensive light.

 **BAM!**

It gave him a perfect shot for his temple.

The man fell in a heap, but John was already moving. The other soldiers were coming soon, and he had to move. He walked around the building, opposite of before.

They would be close to one another, too concentrated. He had to split them up in some way.

Fear wouldn't work. Disloyalty wouldn't work. A distraction was necessary. Something of some kind that would turn them away from him, long enough to shoot them. John knew he didn't need long, but longer than he would be allotted if all their guns were aimed at him.

 **BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!**

 **BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!BAM!**

Bullets shredded the wall he was walking by, tearing through the clay structure and into the buildings opposite the street. Dust and pebbles flew, in the same time as the shredded metal of the bullets did.

John raised the flap of his jacket over his head, hurrying his pace.

"Gah!" He let out involuntarily. Bullets did that. It didn't mean to stop.

He was hit.

Left arm, below his elbow. The jacket had taken majority of the blow. But it was numb now, his hand barely responsive. Possible fracture, definite bruising. Her shook his head and kept walking. Running would be obvious.

It was too late for a distraction. So now it was a false trail.

John dropped the 9A-91 Rifle, too inaccurate. It would be a trail. A false trail, but only if he gave them more. A gun wouldn't point towards his direction. Blood would.

John reached into the sleeve of his injured arm, biting a hiss as he felt the hot liquid and the wound it came from. His suit had prevented puncture, but there was an open wound. Casting might be necessary. That was for latter. This was for now.

He turned into another building, kicking the rifle into the doorway, generating noise. He trailed hand across the wall as he did so, marking the blood. He didn't have much time.

He could only assume they would search for him now, risking the waste of ammunition and possible ambush again. He had to count that they would find and follow his trail, and not perform a full sweep. It was a lot to assume, too much to count on.

Assault was far easier than defense. He had to count on too much.

He fell willingly into the corner of a room, grabbing at parchments of paper and liner nearby. It didn't matter what it used to belong to. He covered himself, putting him a distance from the blood trail he had created.

He was blind now, but that meant they couldn't see him either.

"Weapon found, possible blood trail," one of the men spoke in Russian, a language John was quick to translate. "No sights in alley. Proceeding with caution." John held his breath, focusing his mind, as the men entered.

Their boots sounded the same as before, walking carefully through the building, slow to not rush into an ambush. John could not see them, but he could well guess how they operated. It was doubtlessly the same as when the entered the first building.

Each gun aimed in a different direction, eyes unaligned with their sights. Hands ready to grasp at secondary weapons. They were prepared for an ambush now.

But John knew that there was no way to prepare for all attacks. He knew because no one had survived him before. These men were no different, they would be no different.

He laid still beneath the tarp as they continued to walk by, moving through the room and pushing away scraps of trash with their feet. Perhaps checking for traps. John knew he laid none, but they did not.

He only needed to wait, wait for them to be facing away, down the false trail he had led.

John waited, listened, and heard their boots slowly head towards the exit of the room.

"Room secure, proceeding forward," came the short Russian from one of the men. It was the only chance John knew he'd have.

He leaned up quickly, gun already cocked and aimed towards the direction the men were leaving. The tarp made a heavy sound as he rose, but he didn't care about that.

His focus was on the three men, only one who had his gun near him. A semi-automatic rifle, the same as two of the men John had killed already, doubtlessly having already fired this evening.

But John was already aiming at the man, and his friends were grouped close behind.

 **BAM BAM BAM**

Three shots, three targets. Two fell instantly, bodies dropping as John was used to. The third did not. The third twisted as he fell. The implication was obvious to John.

 **BAM BAM**

The man screamed again, this time his gun dropping to the dirt, before the second shot ruined the firing mechanisms within it. The man didn't even reach for it, clutching at his disfigured hand. John squinted at him.

His aim was off. Likely because of the damage to his arm, or the fatigue. He had not had the chance to rest in some time. That didn't matter. What mattered was the man fleeing into the building.

He had to focus.

* * *

Shit, his gun. Shit, _his hand_.

The soldier silenced his cries of pain, gripping his now useless appendage. His dominant hand now nothing more than a stubble of meat and bone, worthless for holding his gun, any gun.

Baba Yaga would shoot him when he saw him, and the building wasn't nearly large enough to hide in, let alone enough time to prepare an ambush. He had moments, seconds, before the demon followed him in. Then that would be it.

But the monster had missed his head, unlike his comrades. He had hit his shoulder, a flesh wound, and had to fire additional rounds to disarm him. Perhaps it was lighting, maybe fatigue, or age altogether. It wasn't something he could easily tell. It wasn't something he had time to guess.

He needed a way to disarm and defeat the demon, or else he would join his comrades in death. But perhaps, in that sense, it was a win in either direction.

The Russian patted his leg with his only good leg, the opposite leg, grabbing at the side-arm holstered there. He fumbled to remove the clasps positioned to suit his dominant side. It did not help that he was using his less-than-practiced hand to do so, at an awkward angle.

"Blyad," he softly hissed, realizing the nigh-impossibility of the act. He stopped, but for two reasons. The first was the inability to loosen his gun.

The second was the demon walking into the building after him.

The Russian remained still in the shadows, staring at John Wick carefully through the night-vision goggles. The man lacked his own pair, meaning he would have a more difficult time seeing him. Noise would be the enemy now.

Noise that he would create if he loosened his gun. The same model of gun the Baba Yaga now held in his own hand. His comrades gun, stolen from a corpse. Another reason to kill the man.

But his advantage was great over the Russian's own, and that was without the warnings of his Captain. This John Wick would shoot quickly and accurately, to a degree that would shame all in the city. So now was the time to be more preemptive.

His eyes followed John's, watching as the man entered and moved through the room in a method so very American. His back to the wall, gun close, but held forward, eyes unaligned with path of his pistol, never looking directly down the path he was walking.

But even for all the caution the demon had, he was still exposing precious seconds for the Russian to approach, to move with careful footsteps in heavy boots. He only needed to get close enough, then he could disarm the man.

The man, the Russian now realized, who was equally injured. Apparently, the blood they had found was not merely a false trail. It had come from a real wound. If nothing else, it explained the lack of accuracy within his shots.

But it only meant, for the Russian, an area to focus on. It was an equal thought for the demon, who kept his injured side to the wall at all opportunity he could. Yet, there were still openings.

Openings for the man to approach, to draw closer, carefully throughout the room. Avoiding scraps of trash, stepping over abandoned furniture, edging ever closer in the dark.

Until he was ready.

He struck without a battle-cry or sound.

 _SMACK_

His good hand hit the underside of John Wick's pistol, dislodging it from his grip. But the Russian was not done.

 _SMACK_

He hit again, a practiced move for disarmament, pushing the gun from John's hand and out of sight, into the darkness. John had taken the opportunity in equal measure.

His foot kicked out, injured arm drawing into increase his center of mass, decrease the areas to strike at. A Russian way to fighting. It culminated in his foot striking out at the Russian soldier's own, nearly knocking him from balance.

But the Russian twisted, spinning with the back-hand of his good fist, ready to disorient then grapple the man. John dodged the blow easily, backing away into the darkness. Still, away from his gun.

It was a victory, momentary, but still one to recognize.

John Wick was disarmed. Therefore, their standing was equal.

"Come, American," the Russian taunted in the dark, knowing the advantage was his from the distance. "Let me show you your stupidity. It shall be-" He stopped as Baba Yaga charged.

The man stayed low, his suit moving with his low center of gravity. A Russian maneuver, easily countered. The soldier did so with a step back to rear his foot, swinging it upwards to clock the man's head.

John moved left and dodged it, his good arm reaching beneath the man's leg. The Russian's eyes widened feeling his momentum thrown with his captured footing. It only became worse when Baba Yaga simply stood, forcing his foot too high.

The Russian fell, his back hitting the dirty floor painfully. He didn't have time to complain. He threw his goggles off, rolling away from whatever attack John would try next. He stopped on his back, legs reared to kick at the knees of John.

Only to see him holding his gun.

The soldier's eyes widened, looking to his side and seeing his unclasped holster. It made every action of the Baba Yaga instantly make more sense, and fill the main with an unappreciative awe. He was never trying to win a fight against him.

He was only ever swinging to distract the man. Because no tool was better than a gun in a fight. And no man… no being was better with a gun than the demon called Baba Yaga.

The Russian felt himself grin sardonically, at the stupidity of it all. It did not matter if he died. His brethren would avenge him. Not even the boogeyman could escape the devil.

He grinned up at the man as he approached, fearless of the gun aimed at his head. His death would slow Baba Yaga, and it would allow the Hotel to truly end him. He would suffer for the deaths he had wrought against them, then he would greet the man in hell.

"You will die for-"

 ** _BANG_**

* * *

John knew he was dead. They were all dead. Confirmed kills. It meant it was time to move.

A pair of undamaged night vision goggles were his, useful and tactical for his purpose. A VSK-94 modified rifle, a single magazine of extra ammunition, was also appropriated. It was superior to the automatic rifle he had before, likely the more close-range oriented 9A-91. It was an appropriate weapon for shake-downs and intimidation, small and conserved

The VSK had more accuracy, longer range, and better conservation of the bullets. It was more suited for ambush and assault.

There were many extra clips for the Tokarev as well. It must have been the new secondary weapon of choice for the Hotel. An expensive venture, but carried intimidation and accuracy suitable for their purposes. It would work for John as well.

There were plenty of grenades, but explosives were unnecessary. Too easy to return, and trained soldiers like the Hotel would be wary of any traps he had. Too high a chance to self-inflict damage in small quarters, the only quarters Roanapur offered in doors.

Flash-grenades, however, the few he found, were suitable. A few spare seconds to place necessary kill shots was worth it. Superior indoors as well, even more so against those with night vision.

And that was all he could carry.

He was right about the radios, and Balalaika had already told them of a secondary frequency should her first team failed. It would be useless to him. The flashlight was useless when night vision was able. The heavy jacket would slow him down, make him too easy a target to spot, easier than he was already.

He could conceal the Tokarev and spare ammo. He could hide the night vision and grenades in the dark. The VSK would be difficult, but from a distance it would be a blur.

But come sunrise, he would be a walking target.

His new objective was clear, for the moment. He needed to find a safe haven, a home for the night in the den of thieves.

That was difficult, even for him.

John thought as he walked, avoiding open streets and hugging the building walls. Eyes were up on the rooftops and windows, ear focused for crunching dirt and muttering. He kept his breath short to hear better.

Roanapur was a decaying city without honor. They were loyal to offered money and protection, and the most of each. No matter the amount of tokens he had on him, gold of the Continentals, it was paltry compared to the Hotel's income, let alone the Triads or other lords of the city.

Protection was never something he excelled at. He was to reactionary.

The few neutral grounds would deny him the same. He was now hot, his bounty well known. Yolanda and The Rip-Off Church would turn him away, too risky to house him near their product, and too damaging to their relations. Dutch and the Black Lagoon were much the same. If they favored him, they would lose business with others.

That was not to give thought that one of them likely was responsible for his exposure. It had to be them. Watsup was a corrupt man in a corrupt city, but he was cowardice incarnate. He wouldn't risk angering John.

Then again, neither did Viggo. It was likely a lieutenant beneath him did, but it was unlikely as well. It would require Watsup to tell tales of John to them, and be aware of his bounty.

The only names left on John's list were confirmed dead years ago, dead or leaving Roanapur for safer waters. The Arabs had rejoined their breather during the rise of Al Qadda, the same for the Somalians in their home country. Even then, they would ask for favors John couldn't risk.

He shut his eyes for a moment, leaning into the darkness of an alley as he did so. Cover while he was vulnerable, safety while he thought. He blended in, with a suit of black and guns to match.

As he shut his eyes, he focused his thoughts, reconciled his needs to his wants. He wanted anonymous leave from Roanapur, preferably by boat. He needed to leave, even if by dirt roads in a stolen jeep, an unmarked and non-bugged jeep.

He wanted to find a neutral ground to stay at, similar at least in practice to the Continental, the hotel non-existent in the city. He needed to find a safe place to stay a single night, so that he travels amongst the crowd during the day, even if lesser armed.

He wanted his life back. He needed to live.

Focus. He needed focus.

John slowly opened his eyes as he released his breath of air, eyes looking through the stolen goggles down the alley and to the streets. Still nothing.

Balalaika had the funds to bug and track the more expensive merchandise, but to do so to all guns and weaponry would be impossible in Roanapur, not whilst they were caught in eternal gun wars with rival gangs.

They may not have a track on him, but Russians were devout to their brothers. They would not rest the night until he was dead. That, or the sun rose.

But when the sun rose, the crowds would come.

John nodded as the idea filled his mind, his feet moving once more. He could not stay still for long, and the Russians would continue to search for him.

Roanapur was a city of thieves and killers, but it was a city open to the public. It was not the Golden City, but it was a spot for tourists as well. Tourism which kept the city alive. Poorly, little so, but enough.

It was enough to have a fake police force, fake laws, and fake protection. And to maintain that illusion, they needed someone to clean up the fights.

They had no Charlie, no Waste Disposal so efficient. There were too many bodies and too many crimes for such a thing to be possible. But they must have had one, one to hide the bodies that couldn't be found, clean up messes that couldn't be seen.

A cleaner was neutral ground, because risking the life of a cleaner risked exposing the business. Attacking a cleaner was risky for any mob member. They were the untouchables of the Underworld.

Perhaps, just maybe, it was the one rule that was upheld in Roanapur. How else could the thieves and killers of the toxic city hope to hide, if they didn't have someone to clean their mess?

John knew what he needed now, and it matched what he wanted. He had a place to start his search, so hoping it was the same as it was those dark years ago.

He needed to find the cleaner in the dirty city.

He wanted to hide with them.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

So yeah, maybe a bit shorter in terms of chapter length, but I am trying to refine my skill as a writer by taking out fluff and writing an easy to imagine scene. Taking the time to describe every part of the area would throw off the tension, mostly by destroying the pacing. That's hard to manage in writing but is one of those things you must get down if you want to be good at the skill. Kind of like a digital artist and nailing depth perception. Important to get right and obvious when wrong.

Also, let me know what you _really_ think about the fight. Honest thoughts. Fights in John Wick are so straight-forward yet flashy, that they are usually boring to write about. If I wrote this at length, it would've destroying John's badass character. Headshots are the only shots, after all.

And thought it may pain me to say it, this is the middle of the rising action guys. I'd say… five or six more chapters then the story is done. John Wick is a movie after all, not an extended mega universe.

And on that note, here's what I wanted to accomplish this chapter.

+Make clear the understanding in abilities between John Wick and Balalaika

+Demonstrate the superior abilities of the Hotel Moscow, yet still inferior to John

+Setup the next, and last, important plot character


	6. Razor Bath

Sawyer enjoyed her work. It kept her busy. Being busy kept her mind from wandering.

The more she thought about her work, the less she had to worry about the people around her. The people that ignored her, that dropped bodies, clothing, and orders to her. People that didn't see her as a person.

People that didn't care if she dissolved the bodies in acid, treated stains with base-solutions, or used a rusty knife to cut the meat. As long as she was busy, she didn't have to think about those people.

It's why her mind was on the four Russians in her morgue, dropped off by Boa of the Yellowflag. Requested from Fry-Face, a personal favor granted by Mr. Chang, and something Sawyer could not ignore.

She had to dispose of the bodies so they couldn't be traced, if found by a respectable individual. That meant removing finger-prints, removing teeth, removing hair, removing blood, and, perhaps most importantly, adding facial deformities.

Sawyer enjoyed that part of her work.

The third of the four bodies was being worked on, the blood draining through several below-ground level IV's with the body hanging to prevent pooling. Finger prints came off with fingers, and her clippers did wonder through the bone, so long as she kept them sharp.

One hand down, one to go. And she was ahead of schedule. Her throat also itched.

A soundless breath escaped her lips, the same sound she always made, as she put down the clippers and pulled off her thick gloves. It was important to do the gloves first, or else she'd get blood on her face as she took of her mask.

People were dirty, there was no telling what their blood had been in. She didn't want that on her. It would ruin her dress.

Her hair, thick and billowy, came up as her goggles were pulled off. It already hanged over her apron, bloody as it was. She deposited the gloves and apron in the furnace, as the bloody articles were meant to go. Blood was impossible to get out. She knew.

Another soundless sigh left her lips. She was nearly done here, but there was still more to do. The meat cleavers were probably behind schedule as well. That was not to mention the few suits she had to clean for Mr. Chang's associates before the meeting out of town.

He was picky if she didn't have it pressed before he arrived. Nice, but picky.

Sawyer walked by a dry table, holding one of the two bodies she had finished processing. It was clean of any identifying features, no possibility for DNA, dental, finger-print, or facial recognition. Bodies remaining only to be used as messages and signs.

It was how the Hotel preferred to operate. Sawyer preferred cleaning messes, not preparing them. But it was work, and it kept her busy.

Busy to ignore the marks on her neck, the itches at her wrist, the silence from her throat…

 _Tap-Tap_

And the man at her side.

She twisted, scalpel in hand and eyes narrowed. Both stopped in near the same instant they were swung.

A hand caught her wrist. Dark blue eyes caught her lavender orbs. She stared into the eyes of an old white man, eyes as cold and dead as the bodies she had been preparing.

And he stared.

Sawyer didn't speak, couldn't speak, as she was held in place. Her dominant hand held in a restrictive grip, the man's taller stature easily holding her feet off-balance, and the tell-tale feeling of a pistol aimed at her gut.

This man, the filthy white trash, was well-trained. He wouldn't miss. Not even a child would at this range. And if he did, he was too well-armed for her to have a chance. The rifle slung about his back was proof of it.

And he still, he didn't talk, he only stared.

With a beard messier than Mr. Chang's suits after a bad business meeting, and his own suit damaged and bloody, he looked like a bum. A bum that had a nice, but ruined, suit, and training to catch her off-guard.

What would a white trash old fart like him want with her?

"Where is Tom?" The words were as cold as his eyes, and as confusing as his appearance.

Sawyer's head twisted what little it could from the awkward position, staring at the old man. She didn't know any Tom, and he wasn't drunk enough to be asking meaningless questions. Who was this gringo?

"Where. Is. Tom?" He asked again. This time, with a tightening on her wrist.

And Sawyer could not speak. She couldn't say she didn't know. She couldn't tell the old man to piss off. She couldn't even insult his filthy appearance. Not without her box. Her box sitting four feet away on a tool table, away from the blood and gore of her work.

The old man's eyes followed her own, never releasing her grip. He didn't say anything.

Not even as he began to walk, towing Sawyer silently at gun-point. Only the scuffs of the shoes on the ground filled the room. And when the stopped, Sawyer reached for the box.

The gun pressed harder into her gut, compounded by the old man's eyes staring at her intently. She watched his still, seeing the dead look that held no regret. It was the same look in the corpses she had finished dirtying, and the same as the ones she had incinerated.

Even being around death in a damned city, it was the first time she had seen such dead eyes in a living person.

Slowly, with her free hand, she grasped and pulled the box to her throat, pushing the electro-larynx to her windpipe. Pressing the button she began to speak.

"I do not know who Tom is." The man's eyes narrowed, but neither his grip nor the gun fell from his hand. "Who is Tom."

The old man did not answer. Even though he had spoken, and had a voice, he did not speak. Instead, his eyes looked to the bodies that behind her, the Russians that she had been given by the Hotel and Mr. Chang.

"Where is Mr. Saw-yer." Sawyer narrowed her own eyes.

The stupid gringo. Not only did he not recognize her, he didn't even know what had happened.

"I am Sawyer." She did not flinch under the gaze of the old gringo. She twitched at the way his hand tightened around her wrist. His strength did not belittle his age. "I am. Mr. Sawyer died years ago."

In a fire of her making, after he had failed to cut deep enough into her throat.

A failure of a cleaner, making a mess that only claimed him. And she had to clean up after him, to make sure that the were was always some to clean up the messes of others.

But this old white man… if he was asking for the man who tried to kill her… At least Sawyer knew his name now, his full name. Tom Sawyer, the cleaner of Roanapur.

"Did you kill him?" the man asked. The gun did not leave her gun. His eyes did not leave hers.

He had short speech pattern, too short. Not like Mr. Chang, or Dutch, or the killers of Yellowflag. He was too short, too precise. He would recognize if she was lying.

Because he was a killer. He had eyes colder than any body she had ever worked on.

"Yes." She answered. Her first kill, and one she did not regret.

And the man's eyes didn't change. He didn't pull the trigger, snarl, insult, or even demand why. Those were what she usually heard from the few people she was given alive, usually by Shenhua. By this old man did not do that.

But then at the same time, he didn't release her hand. Nor did he take the gun out of her gut.

"Are you the cleaner?" His eyes did not change. He didn't release her.

But if he was asking that, he wasn't one of the typical killers from Yellowflag. He was too white and ignorant to be from the Triads, and Fry-Face wouldn't send someone to interrogate her while she was doing them a favor.

Who was this man?

"Who are you?" Sawyer asked in return. He would kill her, with eyes like that. And if she was going to die, at least she could make her killer look angry.

"John." The name was too plain, even for a gringo. It had to be fake.

"What do you want?" Any lie he said would be as obvious as the gun still pressing into her chest.

But he didn't say anything. Through a gruff beard and dirty skin, he stared at her. His cold eyes didn't blink, he didn't snort or laugh. He just stared. It was nothing like the usual killers that she was hired by.

His clothes, his speech, his eyes. He was just too different in every way.

"I'm looking for a vacant coffin." Even with her arm twisted painfully, balance being kept from her, and dead eyes starting at her, Sawyer's brow twisted in confusion.

Did he want to die?

He didn't grin like it was a joke. He didn't looking like he could make a joke. So what did he mean by a vacant coffin? It was just too weird for Sawyer.

And worst of all, this was distracting her from her work.

But then he sighed, a deep sigh that Sawyer could feel. It was the kind of sigh Shenhua gave when she was back from a job for Mr. Chang. This man sighed the same.

"I need a place to hide, and I can pay." That made more sense, even if it was impossible.

"No." Sawyer answered back, knowing that it would get her killed. But if she let the crazy gringo stay, she'd be killed by whoever was hunting him. Being a good cleaner didn't mean much if no one could trust you.

But the, the crazy man released her arm.

He pushed it away, forcing her arm out of reach as he stepped back. His gun still faced her, aimed now at her head at eye level. All she had was her electro-larynx and a knife. She wasn't Shenhua, so this was a bad fight.

Then, the 'John' reached into his pocket, grabbing at something in the free pockets of his dark jacket. She watched him, ready for even a chance to throw the scalpel. A good toss at an eye and she'd be able to kill him.

But out of his pocket, the old man pulled a shiny gold coin.

Sawyer stared at it. She had seen it before, years ago. At least a coin like that. It was a coin that Mr. Sawyer had before, a chest full of them that she sold off after she killed him. It gave her immunity, money, a job, and protection.

It gave her all of that from the Triads, the Cartel, and the Hotel. They all paid up to it. And this man was holding one again.

"I can give you three." He spoke as if the deal was already made. "I can give you three if you let me stay the night." Sawyer wasn't even aware it was night yet. She was too focused in her work.

The coin was worth a lot of money. But was it worth enough. It could be a trap. It could be a way to kill her.

No. Mr. Chang had told her how stupid it was for someone to lure you into a trap after they already captured you. It was how he had found her. This man was doing the same thing. He had her gun point, scalpel out of danger, and answering questions for him. And he let her go, now offered to pay her.

In a damned city of killers, thieves, and rapists, Sawyer had never met a crazier or dumber man than the gringo in front of her.

"No," Sawyer spoke again. "You will kill me if you leave, but whoever is hunting you will kill me if you stay." It was obvious he was being hunted. No one would ask to stay in her work space, and he was too wounded for it to be anything else.

She was not stupid, not like this gringo.

"I won't kill you." The old man spoke again. "And no one will care about where I've been after I'm dead."

The words were careful and powerful.

 _Slap_

But not as powerful as the old man putting his gun down. Now Sawyer had a chance, maybe.

The old gringo was stupid with his requests, but everything else about him said that there was more to him. Like a body given to her by Mr. Chang, it was never just a plain hit.

And the gold the old man had was still gold. She could buy a better cleaver, or some more potassium hydroxide. They lye would make the dissolving of bodies faster.

"Why here?" Sawyer asked carefully. She still had the knife in her hand, so she could still kill the man.

And this man was a friend of the man who tried to kill her. He couldn't be trusted if that were the case. He might try and kill her for revenge. Why not yet, she didn't know.

It was likely the same reason the 'Tom' wanted to cut her throat before stabbing her.

"An empty coffin." The old man said again. If he was asking for death, Sawyer could oblige. She didn't have much luck against the Greenback girl, but an old man without a gun, in her place of work, couldn't be too much trouble.

But he still didn't shut his eyes, didn't blink, and didn't look away. Those cold eyes kept watching Sawyer, like the dead that she worked on.

"Tom owed me a favor." The gringo spoke again. "An empty coffin, or a place to stay." Sawyer had no idea who would call a coffin a place to stay. But she knew she owed no favors to the man who was friends with her once had-been killer.

But if she told him to just leave, he might kill her. He didn't have the eyes of someone who cared. It was hard to say if there was anything he could care about. Because his eyes weren't like the kills from Yellowflag, the Triads, or even the Hotel.

"I can trade," the man spoke again, twisting his thumb and index finger against the gold coin. An act that showed that one gold coin was three. Three gold coins. "For one night, here, then nothing more."

He didn't seem like a liar. And Roanapur was not a place you could make riskless deals, especially not when you had to deal with death.

This man was also keeping her from her work. That was bad for both of them. There was still so much work to do.

"How do I know you won't kill me?" It was an answer that would probably be a lie, or a snarky response. Liars came from Yellowflag, cockiness from the gangs. This man may not look like either, but he was going to respond like one of them.

"You're the only safe place left for me." Or not.

She stared at the gringo through slit eyes, eyeing him up and down.

He was dressed like the reaper, all black and with hair to match. The guns, a pistol and rifle, helped. She didn't know the models, as guns were useless against knives up close. Shenhua was an example of that, and she was one with a good saw.

But there were mares in his clothing, something that bothered her. Bullet holes, obviously, or possibly shrapnel. It was difficult to tell when he was out of arm's reach, and the fabric was so dark.

The stains were obvious though, blotted and dark colors on already black clothing. Doubtlessly, obviously blood. The old man even leaned with the wounds. He wouldn't be a threat.

And if he was, she could handle him.

"Okay." Sawyer responded, holding up her hand for the coins, warry with a foot back to kick him. But it was unneeded.

The man, without hesitation, dropped the coins into her palm, clanking together as they did so.

Sawyer did not handle gold often, usually cash, drugs, or deposits to various accounts. But she knew that gold was heavier that your average coin, and these coins were heavy. They were gold, doubtlessly to her.

And the man had given her three of them for a place to stay. It was a deal, like a job for work. So she could focus on that.

"Stay out of my way as I work," Sawyer instructed, pointing to a far wall filled with tiling. "I'll be done soon." She only had a couple bodies left, and then she could hang them to dry.

The gringo walked away without a nod, stopping when he faced the wall. Sawyer watched him, she watched as he twisted until his back was to the wall, in a corner of the room facing the only door in and away from any sharp tools. A careful man.

But then he looked at her, eyes slit like her own, silent. She continued to stare at him. If she broke eye-contact first, it would be… unpleasant.

"Do you know any cleaners?" The question surprised Sawyer, both by the timing and the words themselves. Her mouth, silent as it was, twisted in confusion. Did they not already discuss this? "Clothes cleaners."

Ah, that made more sense. And it was related to her work.

"Can you remove these stains?" The man said, holding up the sleeve of his suit jacket. Sawyer stared at the man's black suit.

There were red blotches deeper than she was aware before. A few long the lapels of his arm, likely from the wound, but others that showed arterial spray. Close-range executions most likely.

She shook her head. No one was that good.

"Right." He said simply, head nodding. "Thank you." With that he slid down the wall, until he was sitting on the tiled floor, staring at he door ahead of him.

He really didn't speak much. Sawyer was glad for that.

* * *

Tom Sawyer was dead. A failed contract had taken his place.

That made sense both within and without the city of thieves. Unlikely in New York. Impossible, perhaps, in Tokyo, but believable in a place where crime was encouraged.

Tom valued the knives too much. Contracts that specialized in suicides, not killings. Body preparation, staging, and cleaning. Those were his expertise.

He had fled to this city decades ago, after he had failed to pay the continental his membership. John had traced him here, and used him the few times he came to the city. Mr. Chang and the Cartel used him most frequently.

It was impossible to tell who placed the hit on the girl who had taken his place. It didn't appear that either side cared.

This girl was meticulous in her work, like Tom without a voice. But she lacked the mind of the former assassin.

A coffin was a place for the dead to rest. Those searching for targets didn't look for coffins. If you rested in a coffin, you were safer than in a vault. It was how the Undertakers of the Continental often described it. And history for John showed they were right.

But this girl was not experienced with the cities beyond Roanapur. She cleaned as was her duty, and nothing more. Able to kill, doubtlessly, but no experienced with it.

And she was young, very young. The appearance was obvious enough, but she lacked the signs of age, the skills that came from living through a dangerous life.

There were no silent sirens in the hallway to her morgue. There were no guns or spare explosives beneath the tables at her work. There were no guards to keep her safe without being distracted. And there was very little secrecy in what she did.

Perhaps some came from her duty in a rotten city. Who would attack the cleaner of the dead? John knew that not everyone would have the forethought before acting in such a way.

So, though this 'Sawyer' was young, she was far more amicable than Tom before her.

But he had to remain focused.

He was here to rest, rest and plan for his escape from the city.

It would take too long for him to wait for Balalaika to reduce the search for him. She had too many ears and eyes to trust he left without a trace. She would search until he was found, dead or alive. And now that the others were likely aware of his bounty with the Continental, they would join as well.

But the morgue about him would keep him safe for the night, likely.

It was the same one that Tom had used, and had the same protection that he had designed with it. He had explained it to John after they had met up again following a job.

Sound echoed well within the room, and especially down the hall. A single snap of the fingers could be heard from the entrance of the hallway over a hundred feet away. The bright room and clean floors made hiding almost impossible, and sneaking just as difficult.

The smell was nothing something to be enjoyed, and it was not meant to be. Wanderers and strays wouldn't venture where it reeked, so he would be safe from wandering eyes.

Tom had built the place well. But he was as careless with his one of his kills as he was with his bills.

John fished out a few more coins, a dangerous and precious commodity now. They were not only his means for survival, but they were a trail that Balalaika would easily follow. She was not one to be easily tricked.

And if she was, she was never one to forgo retribution. He was already in her sights, now he had to avoid the trail. But he needed information, information that would lead to his way out of this city of thieves.

He needed to focus, focus on what was important.

Survival was important, and survival in Roanapur was dependent upon information. Safe lodgings, crime-controlled zones, neutral-suppliers, controlled territory, and information brokers.

John had ruined the one safe lodging available to him, knew the zones by sight, the suppliers he had met already met, and word of mouth from tourists and pick-pockets told who was in charge where.

But now he needed information, and a broker was his best bet.

This girl was too young to know much, let alone anything more than the bodies she tended and clothes she washed. Any slight amount of focus to her appearance showed she didn't care.

He needed a broker that sat on neutral ground, that was able to talk to him, and would have the information he needed. The list he had was precariously short, and likely gone with the years between his last visit and now.

Sawyer, as the girl had taken to call herself, was not one to hold information.

She did not recognize him, did not make a move to alert anyone nearby, and focused on her work. The preparing of the bodies he had made hours prior. Balalaika had likely delivered them, with the request to drop them at the doorsteps of the few brave shopkeepers in the city of thieves.

No one associated to the Hotel or Triads would help.

Even if only contractually, the honoring of loyalties was important in a city of deceit. Anyone would agree to meet him, then ambush him just as quickly. Escape was possible, but would only ensure a waste of bullets, an exposing of himself, and the great likelihood of creating more enemies.

The Ripoff Church would not help.

Yosalda was very clear on her business, and not taking sides. Payment was an insurance of delivery, but nothing more or less. They were possible for information, but John did not have the coin to buy their silence. He could not out-bid Balalaika, and she would surely know if he was going to the arms dealers.

Watsup and the police would not help.

They were corrupt on every level, and a perfect example of the poison of a city without a Continental connection. They would take his money, fake his protection, and lie about a means of escape, then sell his location to Balalaika or Mr. Chang with hardly any hesitation.

It was hard to say who else, unrelated to the major crime groups, would favor him over them.

If Balalaika, Mr. Chang, or any other member of their group were to find out who he had spoken to, it was difficult to promise they would not gain the information they needed. This was not the Continental, this was not neutral ground.

There were no guarantees that any services bought would match services rendered.

He breathed slowly, focusing on his breathing.

John had not come to Roanapur in some time, and he was now paying the price. Too many people he knew were gone, and not enough were left to help him when things were going bad. Now he had to focus and take risks. Risks that an amateur would have to take.

Thankfully, he knew he could overcome the mistakes that would kill said amateur. Like playing too much of the hand to a cleaner of the city's crimes.

Sawyer, finishing up one of the bodies that he had killed, had glanced at him far more than once during her job. He didn't mind. She had accepted his payment, and he was able to rest. She didn't trust him, and that was understandable.

But she may have something else he needed. Or at least, she could help him find it.

A cleaner may not be the most knowledgeable of what was current in the city, but perhaps she was aware of the players within it. It was a risk to ask, but it was a risk John had to take. But not until she was done.

So he waited. John Wick waited as Sawyer silently, but efficiently, stripped every traceable identity of the men he had killed from the world. She was young, but she clearly had experience. Perhaps the requirement of what Tom had done to her.

But that didn't matter. It was outside of his focus. He only needed Sawyer to tell him, possibly by price, of an information broker he could speak to.

John took the time to check the weapons he had gathered from the soldiers, the Tokarev pistol had not suffered any damage from the fight, thankfully, though he was lower on ammunition for it. The VSK was in the same condition, though clearly outfitted for a soldier more equipped than he was.

The ammunition for it was far lower than the pistol, as there were fewer bodies and less time to grab the clips from. It left him leaning towards the pistol, unless he had the opportunity to strike first, a priority within the town.

Even more so now that his suit was already slightly ruined. Slightly, only the sleeve, but enough to make his arm slower to swing and painful to grasp. It wasn't a detriment that would keep him unable to fight. A good night's rest, proper rest, and he'd be capable of fighting. It would takes weeks to fully stitch, however.

For now, he only had to fight with his right foot forward, to keep his injured arm from being crippled. Also to prevent any openings, no matter how small and loose they were. This was not a time for unnecessary risks. Not when so many were already being taken.

Such talking to the cleaner about the city she scrubbed.

John finished dressing the wound in his arm when he caught Sawyer taking a step towards him. Though she had no gun on hand, he could not be sure how skilled she was with a knife. He was always focused on the next fight.

But Sawyer stopped in front of him, too far a distance for either her or him to reach the other. She was being careful, smart. She wasn't knew to this, only him.

Holding the electro-larynx up to her neck, she began to speak.

"When will you be leaving?" John kept his eyes on hers, slit as they were and staring towards him.

"Tomorrow morning," he answered clearly. When the streets would be full enough for him to be lost in a crowd. "Are you finished with the laundry?"

She twisted her lips at the question, though no words of her own came from them. She didn't understand. The Sawyer was a worker of Roanapur, not of the killers from the Continental. She wouldn't understand the code.

"Are you done with the bodies," John asked again. He kept his tone the same. He was focused on his words.

"Yes, thank you for not disturbing my work anymore." He would never. He knew how important work was to maintain one's focus. "Now why are you here?" He had already answered this, but maybe she wasn't focused on him

"It is the only safe place for me." He couldn't call it the coffin. She wouldn't understand. "And I will leave in the morning." But there was more he had to ask first.

It was a risk, and the eyes of Sawyer, still bearing one of her tools, made that evident. He could not afford to lose the one place to rest for the night. But neither could he afford to venture into a city of thieves without a place to go.

"Do you know of any librarians?" The word left his mouth, and he shook his head. John knew by now that this Sawyer would not understand. She didn't know code. "Do you know where I can find an information broker?"

Her look changed, thoughtful with the larynx box held to her throat. She wasn't trying to hide the scalpel anymore. Or perhaps she had another weapon hidden from his view. His focus never ideas that risked his life alone. John couldn't afford to.

"You are looking for an informant?" Maybe, John realized, but it wasn't the right word.

That implied being a traitor, a rat. Something that was likely to be killed quickly in Roanapur, and not likely to be trusted either.

"No," he spoke back. "Information only. From the outside." He hated talking like this even more.

Though there weren't any police to have to avoid the detection of, code had become the common tongue in cities that held alliances with Continentals. The same tongue was not understood by this Sawyer.

Laundry at night. An empty coffin. Finest cuts. Evening papers. She had either already shown to not understand the meanings or would likely fail to. So now he had to resort to saying what he wanted plainly.

He hated it, but not so much to risk his life. He had to focus, and his focus told him to keep going.

"There is someone that might be like that." John listened, with an attentive gaze, as Sawyer spoke on. Her lavender hair shadowed her slit eyes. "He is new, but well known for mediation of deals. I've met him once, and he was resourceful, even if he was a coward."

It was more accurate to say he was careful, if John was thinking in the same line as Sawyer. Doubtful, but possible. Information brokers were often careful, and so often were not astute at fighting. He doubted Sawyer was beyond the blade she held, and hid.

"Will you tell me his name?" John asked, wording his question carefully. Where he was would be dangerous for her, as she was not informed of the city, not as well as he would like. People rarely held still in a city of thieves, when they were those without power.

He needed a name, as that would not change no matter where he went.

But Sawyer didn't answer. Instead, her eyes drifted to his jacket once more. Towards the pocket that held the gold coins. He understood well enough.

His hand fished for another gold coin, one of the few he had left. There were four remaining after the one he gave away, not enough for another day in Roanapur, not when he was target. But this was a risk worth taking regardless.

He held it out to her, and the mute cleaner stared at it, hands full with her voice and knife. She hadn't turned it down, but was thinking of something else. John waited, patiently.

When Sawyer moved again, she placed her scalpel on a nearby table, the red on it smearing over the glossy and clean surface. Her hand cupped itself under John's ready to catch the gold coin he dropped. She would not even risk touching him. Smart.

And John dropped the first of his last five gold coins into the cleaner's hand.

"His name is Rock." Sawyer spoke simply and easily. It was not a name John recognized before. But it was one he had recently learned.

It made sense as well. Dutch was not one to hire new employees easily. Now the motive behind that odd man made sense.

"When will you be leaving?" It was the same question, but for a different subject.

The answer hadn't changed.

The only thing that had changed was where he was going.

* * *

Rock always drove when they were on their way back from the Yellowflag. It was a rule made by Dutch following his hiring by the company.

Revy had too many accidents, Benny couldn't always come, and Dutch didn't want to mix business with pleasure. But Rock was the one person among them who could keep his head straight even when it was being drowned by liquor.

On the average night, he would nod as Revy shouted out of the side of the jeep, cheering as she spun her unloaded pistols by her thumbs. He would use turn signals and obey stop signs, marred as they were, while Revy cussed at him for not being able to 'force the stick out of his ass'. Her words.

That was on the average night. This was not the average night.

Right now, Revy and Rock were dead silent, staring ahead as they pulled along the street to the Lagoon Company building. There was nothing he could think to say.

A quiet Revy was usually a dangerous one, one who had slipped off of her carefully crafted sanity and was looking for someone to kill. That was the usual time when Revy was quiet. But now was quiet possibly worse.

Revy was quiet, sitting stiffly in her seat, because she was scared. He didn't even have to guess. She told him.

She told Rock she was scared when the 'Babayaga' walked out of their building, when he was seen in the Yellowflag, after he killed four of Hotel Moscow's men, and when Boa said he had a bounty on his head, in the millions.

Revy was scared, and Rock could guess why.

Bounties were something she chased, no matter who else was chasing them. Those were too common in Roanapur. No one, not even Balalaika or Mr. Chang, made her flinch. She showed respect, but never submissive fear. That's because everyone knew and understood them.

But this Babayaga, John Wick, was unknown, dangerous, and being hunted.

Even Rock's hands were white on the steering wheel as he pulled along side the Lagoon Company building. His breath was hardly anything more than a weak stutter, hindered by his tight chest.

He wasn't scared by death, bullets, or violence. Not anymore at least.

But Revy scared? Rock didn't any other way to act.

She jumped out of the jeep as soon as Rock stopped, halfway up the stairs by the time he had turned off the ignition. He was fumbling with the keys as he opened the door, hurrying after her. He almost tripped on his feet in the dark.

He made it to the foot of the stairs when Revy opened the door, nearly running in with guns already in hand. There were no gun shots following that, thankfully. Rock ascended the stairs just as quickly.

And inside the office of the Lagoon company, he saw Dutch at his desk. For this time of night, it was wrong.

"The fuck are you still doing here?" Revy spat out. No consideration to who she was speaking to. Quiet and angry Revy, always a bad kind of Revy. "Get a call from Big Sis?" Possible, but he would have called them if that were the case.

And Dutch didn't answer, not right away. His hands left his temples, folding at his desk as he looked forward through the thick frame of his sunglasses. How he could still see them, Rock wasn't sure.

"Good to see your both okay." Those were odd first words. Unless he already knew something. "When word got out about John and the Yellowflag, I was worried you'd be runnin' after him." Now that was a possibility. One Rock would have thought, if he hadn't seen Revy so scared.

"Fuck no!" She shouted back, ponytail waving with the force her head shook. "You think I'd chase after the motherfucking boogeyman of the Russians?! I'm a _bitch_ , but I ain't a fuckin' dumb one!" Rock would only speak that he was thankful she had not chased after him as well.

"Right. That bein' said, we're heading out soon." Rock shook his head a bit. There was no alcohol to clear out of his mind, but he still thought he misheard his boss. "Got work comin' in from Balalaika. Good timing at that." Perfect, actually.

Too perfect.

"Jesus, I was fucking _joking._ " Revy let out, scratching her head with the sight of her pistol. Rock hoped they were unloaded, but he knew better. "And what's she's callin' in you in the middle of the fucking night for? That shit is for business hours, right?" That was something Dutch was big on.

"She's a valued customer and she's asking for special circumstances," Dutch responded smoothly as ever, as he was practiced to. He was already standing as he spoke. "And it's bad business to turn down a special request from a repeat customer. 'Specially when she's got more guns than the Taiwanese army." Maybe not in one spot, but she likely did.

"Damn… _God-_ Damnit." Revy cursed, arms dropping again to her sides. She still held her pistols tightly. Rock stood behind her, just in case. "Well, did Big Sis at least tell ya what the job was? Does it involve booze? I could use some belly-fucking vodka right now."

Rock was honestly just happy Revy was talking again. It meant she was coming out of her insanity. It was safer for him, and everyone else. But they weren't safe, not if John was out there and as dangerous as every rumor made him out to be.

"Didn't say much, just that she was gonna give us a call when she got the details set." Rock nodded. That made sense, at least explaining why Dutch was here. "So we just gotta sit tight and wait." It didn't much for his nerves.

Seeing four of the specialized Hotel Moscow being killed with such efficiency… it was something he knew was abnormal even in this upside down world of thieves.

 **Knock-Knock**

Just as abnormal as the knocks on the door.

Revy already had her guns trained, and Rock retreated to the far side of the room. Dutch had his shotgun ready, aimed at the door as well. This was not normal for even their normal hours.

"Dutch of Lagoon Company," a deep voice spoke through the door. "We are here on Kapitan Balalaika's orders." Rock blinked.

"The _fuck_ , Dutch?" Revy asked over her shoulder. "You said they were gonna fucking call. This is the wrong kind of fucking call." Rock didn't disagree.

"In case you missed the words, we were expecting a phone call." Dutch cocked the shotgun as he spoke, yelling to the door. So he wasn't expecting this either. "You're gonna have to show us you are who you are. Not a safe time to be opening doors on trust."

"The Kapitan said to tell you 'John Wick is a resourceful man'." At least they weren't ignorant, but Rock wasn't sure how that proved who they were.

Revy wasn't buying it either, seeing as her guns were still trained at the door, eyes slit and glaring in the dark of the room. Rock kept himself as out of sight as he could in their office space.

Dutch, however, lowered his shotgun.

"It's good, Revy," he spoke to Rock's partner, getting a fierce glare from her, unsurprisingly. "Balalaika's just bein' careful with Wick out there. No tellin' where he's at or if he's listen in' at all." Rock would be surprised if a man as lightly loaded as John Wick were tapping their phones.

Revy's hands didn't' fall for a moment either, keeping her guns up and trained. Rock wouldn't move until she did first. He was not going to disarm burning dynamite, not when it wanted to explode.

But with a hissing sigh, her guns lowered, though still kept clenched in her hand. Rock felt one of his own leave his lungs as he approached the door. He was still wary.

Opening it though, slow as he remembered to do, he saw the normally imposing figures of the Hotel gunmen behind it. He didn't recognize their faces, but it was evident they were who they said they were.

"Mr. Rock Rokurou," the man spoke, smiling lightly and nodding his head. Rock did the same in turn, stepping aside to welcome him in. Instead, however, the man merely looked inside. "Dutch and Ms. Revy."

Revy snorted at the Connotation of her name, but nothing more. Dutch shouldered his shotgun as he stared at the men.

"I am glad you are all present," the Russian spoke with practiced English. Rock theorized he handled the documents and relations for Balalaika, possibly. Her foot soldiers and men didn't usually have such clean tongues. "We have a jeep waiting for you at the street."

But that still was not what Rock expected to hear.

"Wait, jeep?" Revy asked, guns still in her hands. Rock watched her carefully, silently. "What's Big Sis sending pick-up for? This ain't exactly our first time doin' jobs for her." It was a great point.

"There is no job." The man said the words too easily, and Rock felt his muscles tighten.

"That ain't what she told me on the phone just a few hours ago," Dutch intervened now, stepping around his desk. "Might wanna fill us in on what's changed since then."

"The Kapitan offered you a job to gain your attention," the man continued to speak. "The purpose is to take you all to a secure sight while Mr. Wick is loose in the city."

Now that made sense.

Balalaika wouldn't want to risk her assets in a man hunt.

She was a woman of war, and the purpose of any war was to defeat your enemies and capture their assets. Losing either, to her, was the same as losing the war.

But Rock was still surprised. He was aware they were used more often to protect her assets, not to be seen as them. What had changed?

"So Big Sis is comin' to make sure we don't get hit with the shit off the fan?" Revy asked. Rock couldn't read her voice. She could be ready to fire, or just ready to smirk. It was hard to tell with how weird the situation was. "Or is there somethin' more to this?"

"We are here to take you to a location by the Kapitan's orders. There is not telling what Mr. Wick is capable of after these years, and she doesn't want to take unneeded chances." Balalaika had ordered it. She had ordered to take them to someplace other than here. That was extreme, even for her.

It meant risking one of her houses, it meant risking her men. That wasn't the normal Balalaika. She would kill citizens openly before her own men.

Unless… he wasn't being taken somewhere for protection.

"Well, if Big Sis insists," Revy shrugged next to him, before walking in between the two Hotel members. Her guns were holstered again, but her hands weren't far from them. She was still on edge. So was he.

The trip down the flight of stairs had much less stress than the journey up it only minutes ago. It was still one that Rock kept his fists balled during. There were too many odd things going on, and he was trying to keep track of them all.

Rock followed Revy into the Hotel modified Jeep, something he had been in only a few times before. He knew why only a few times, because Balalaika didn't want to risk someone not intrinsically apart of the Hotel learning about their equipment. But there were always exceptions.

He sat next to his partner, the burn of her cigarette lighting up the otherwise dark cab. The door shut as he took his seat, the Hotel members walking forward and entering the front compartments. It left enough time for Rock to look out the window.

Look out the window and see Dutch watching them, lips pierced still as stone.

"Wait," Rock started, earning Revy's attention. He wasn't speaking to her. "Isn't Dutch coming with us? He knows John Wick better than Revy or I do." He could guarantee himself. He was at least sure regarding Revy. She wasn't the one who recognized him before.

"Dutch is to be transported separately in an alternative convoy," one of the Russians spoke from the front. They didn't even turn to look at him. "The Kapitan is concerned with keeping her assets separate and contained. That is all I can say."

But Rock understood what he meant.

If they were all together, and John was looking to kill them, it would be easy to take all three of them out if they were in one car, or one location. But that meant something else as well.

That meant that they probably weren't going to the Hotel, or at least not the usual meeting spots. Another secured sight, another area, perhaps, but not where Balalaika normally conducted her business. She wouldn't risk that, if the man was still speaking honestly.

But then he had to wonder, why was he in the same car as Revy?

The Jeep roared to life and began to drive away, in the same time that Revy blew out a puff of smoke from her cigarette. Rock was glad she had it, calming her nerves. He wanted one himself, but wasn't stupid enough to ask for hers. He left his at the Yellowflag.

If he was in the same car as Revy, and the man spoke honestly about keeping assets separate, that meant that either he or she was the asset, and the other baggage.

Revy, it had to be Revy. She was the asset.

They all recognized John, but only Dutch and Revy were good enough with guns to be a threat to John Wick. Though by the rumors and fear Rock saw from every time his name was mentioned, it wasn't a threat that was even considered a risk.

That meant that he would be thrown out first if something called for it, and likely would be if John did show. Revy would fight though, whether or not he was hurt.

Rock sighed, leaning his head back in the seat. This was too much, and all happening far faster than he'd like. And here he thought he had just gotten used to the city.

"Hey Rock," Revy spoke to him. He turned his head, seeing the cinder head of the cigarette pointing at him from her outstretched hand. "Calm your nerves, you're makin' me twitch over there." He nodded at her, accepting the offer.

His fingers gripped and lifted the cigarette to his lips, taking in the tobacco and poison. A steady poison that leveled his mind. A mind that felt like the Roanapur Bay during the rainy season. It was actually a pretty apt metaphor.

There was a storm of rain above the city, tearing into the normal operations around it. The hookers weren't out during the rain, neither were the few civilians. Not only that, cargo was moved faster, differing cars used, locations doubly secured, and even alternative meeting points set, all just because of the rain.

The rain was a veil that kept the normal activities from happening, forcing everyone to work harder, faster, and far better than before just to overcome it.

And John Wick, the Babayaga, felt like the storm cloud above it.

Rock could only hope he wasn't a brewing monsoon.

* * *

 **Author's Note** :

Well, this was fun.


	7. La Vendetta

It was almost perfect. Almost being the operative word Balalaika was focused on.

A warehouse she had cleared out months ago in order to establish it as a rendezvous point for inter-city operations, in the middle of refurbishing and modeling. It was a difficult task, redoing a building designed for storage and scrutiny being outfitted for defense and protection.

It was a process ordered months ago, and was hardly complete now. All the most delicate of arms and ammunitions were removed and stored at the new off-site location, far away from the prying eyes of the cities thieves or eager competitors. Now it housed safety rooms, concrete bunkers, and a central command station.

Still, it wasn't done. More than one wall lacked the concrete reinforcement, rebar was missing from several walls, some windows remained untainted, and worst of all, more than one hallway was missing a lookout or security camera. Blind spots and weak walls littered the compound.

But a Russian soldier did not request better circumstances. Only more time.

Time is what Balalaika excelled at using.

With little time, she had gathered the most likely targets for John Wick and moved them to this location, placing them in rooms that had been mostly secured, and rapidly gave orders to finish what could be by priority. The little time she had allowed her to outfit the building to the same level of security as the Hotel itself, bar the obvious breaching point.

It was a quality to her character little spoken off, but often remarked by the superiors of the Russian Army before the fall of the USSR. Her ability to make much happen in so little time, but always with less than what was usually needed. She used those skills effectively here.

She had to, as John Wick was the ultimate test for those skills.

But it was because that this man was her enemy now that she knew she had to take few risks, the enemy of time. Many loved to indulge in risks and unnecessary requests when time was short, caring more for safety when time was in abundance.

Balalaika was smart enough to not take risks that didn't benefit the lack of time. She didn't push the men she had gathered into a singular room. She didn't order more of her men to arm the walls. She didn't care to finish the concrete or rebar support, and she didn't bother to change the windows.

She also didn't risk to observe the warehouse-turned-safehouse by eye, at least her own eyes.

Everything was being viewed through the computer screen on her desk. True, she could direct the camera and request the necessary adjustment of focus, but it felt too artificial for her to give the complete clear on the set-up of the base.

She sighed through her nose, pinching the bridge. This was the necessary trade-off for dealing with a man as dangerous as John Wick. The separation of players, by distance as far as she could manage, from the man who could go anywhere and take anyone, the Babayaga.

The cigar slowly crumbled along the stick in her mouth, forcing her to brush off the ashes that fell to her desk. It was a passive movement, her eyes and attention much more focused on the screen that was being shown to her.

She couldn't be there to make orders herself. So for now, Balalaika gave orders as her men toured the facility by camera.

"Mount a M18 Mine along that corner," she spoke aloud, pointing at the screen before her. "The visibility is low while approaching it, but make sure to place a concrete slab from the construction to hide it completely." It would also protect it from stray gunfire, in one direction at least.

"Understood," Boris spoke behind her, pen scratching on paper. He soon started speaking in Russian through a nearby radio, giving the necessary orders to the available men. They were not to stop for her.

To stop and ask questions would be a waste of time, and the men could work while she finished her assessment of the safehouse.

"Remove that pillar," she spoke again, trailing a steel column that was jutting out from the wall. "It provides too much cover non-beneficial to us." It would make for excellent cover for someone moving through their grounds."

"Understood," parroted Boris again, but Balalaika did not comment on her dislike for the repeated words. It was not beneficial to time for her to be critical on etiquette. Wars were not won with kind words. They were won with cold fury.

It was the thing she knew John Wick had an endless supply of.

"Board the window, along the northern wall. If necessary, remove it completely." Her fingers traced a tinted glass as they moved by it on the screen. It lacked the temperament to resist bullets, and would make for a weak point for defensive men, her men.

"Understood," came Boris's voice again, before he spoke further into the radio in natural Russian. Balalaika didn't blink as she continued to stare at the screen. It was a sight she knew John would be watching soon enough.

The demon of the New York branch, and one of the most calculating and effective men she had ever met.

And the only man on this Earth, in past or present, to make her second-guess her own decisions.

Balalaika tapped her fingers across her jacket sleeve, eyes unblinking as she stared at the screen in front of her. The quality was suitable, for the image, and was slow enough for her to exam the warehouse they toured through. The metallic walls, spread supports, mid-constructed cinderblock barriers, and all the soldier stations peppered throughout.

"Remove that station," she noted again. "It's too open and there isn't time to reinforce the cover. Move him to the roof and join surveillance."

"Understood," Boris added again, pencil scratched across the pad of paper still. She never glanced at him as she worked. She trusted her men, as they were loyal to her.

It was something she knew John Wick was the outlier for. One trait among many other unique attributes.

His unparalleled marksmanship, proficiency in both Russian and American Martial Arts, dedication to a job, and focus on tasks at hand. It made him far more than merely a capable soldier. It made him the dreaded name whispered amongst the unfortunate members of New York and the well-informed across the world.

Balalaika would use that information to its fullest now.

"Bolt the door, three times over," she tapped on the screen as the camera panned over a wooden structure. "Make it obvious if anyone unauthorized attempts to enter through it." Picking locks would be child's play for a man like John Wick. Dead bolts were never simple.

"Understood," Boris monotony replied. Balalaika kept her focus on the screen as he subordinate parroted the orders in Russian.

Talking was something she wished she could have done. It would have made for a much more enjoyable night.

She would have talked to John.

Balalaika was unconcerned with the world beyond Roanapur, beyond the walls of her city. If John had gone to war with the other branches of the mafia, she wouldn't have cared until they gave her orders to.

In truth, perhaps, she would have liked to talk about a deal with him, perhaps to guarantee that ship he was so keen to as Dutch about. A small task in exchange, maybe, perhaps as small as a lesson to an upcoming gang regarding their place in the hierarchy of power, but that would have been all.

Her train of thought stopped as the camera panned over the objects she was guarding, the valuable members of the Lagoon Company.

Rock and Revy, sitting across from one another in a bare lit room.

The image didn't last long, as the soldier holding the camera continued his work. She didn't fault him either, her own eyes continuing the look over the screen for any areas of improvement. She only made note of the importance of the two here.

Rock was an information source that only the well-informed of Roanapur were aware of. Herself, Mr. Chang, and Yolanda of the Rip-Off Church.

She could not risk John getting to one of those information sources. If he did, he might be able to secure escape.

Not even Balalaika was sure what kind of information John Wick would want, but she knew he would want it. He was a man of focus, and no man so dedicated to his work would act without knowledge or means. He had been robbed thoroughly of one, and was not left only with the other.

Worst yet, he was acquainted well with Dutch, so finding Rock would likely be his main task for information. And because of that, the pacifist member of the Lagoon Company made an excellent piece of bait.

Revy was present simply for her fiery need to protect the Japanese salaryman. If nothing else, she would be useful in slowing John, if only for a moment.

Balalaika did not make enemies of trusted friends. But she didn't make allies out of vicious dogs.

John Wick had killed three of her men, some of her best. Only a dog that had lost it's bark and relied on its bite would make such a terrible mistake.

So now he would have to pay.

"Disengage the wiring to the garage doors to all but the southern entrance, then begin to barricade the inner safe rooms." Balalaika gave her orders as she took the cigar from her mouth, beating its end on the ash tray by the screen. "Following that, turn off all flood lights and use night-vision to observe the rural entrances in the usual shifts."

"Understood, Kapitan," Boris spoke for the last time, his words smoothly transitioning to Russian as he gave the commands through the radio. "May I assume that is all?"

"Yes," she agreed. "When you are done with the orders, prepare yourself as well. We don't know where John is going to attack, and we should be just as prepared here." Thankfully, the Hotel was hardly a building under construction.

It was the home of her operations, and was the fort of Roanapur that the Triads couldn't hope to scratch. With her most talented and loyal men within it, buildings wired to blow around it, and security that had been established and upgraded through years of work, it was far more effective than the renovated warehouse she had just supervised.

The warehouse was a renovation, the Hotel was a command post. One was always more secure than the other, and Balalaika knew that no enemy of hers would dare to attack while she was within the building.

But she also knew John was no common enemy. The boogeyman was not to be underestimated.

"I will pass the orders to the men and begin the tertiary patrol routes as well," Boris spoke in tandem to him ripping the paper from his pad, preparing it for the necessary filing and resource management. "Is there anything else you will be needing of me, Kapitan?"

Balalaika looked at her loyal subordinate, through eyes that were surrounded by fried skin and sagging lines. He looked no better, lips flat and stern, eyes hard and hollow. It was a long night for both of them, and the reminders of John's strength was not a far-off memory in either of their minds.

The Babayaga was here, and they had, likely, what he wanted.

"No," Balalaika spoke simply. "You are dismissed." Her loyal soldier bowed before leaving the room, securing the door and leaving her sight. Balalaika sighed in the solitude of her office.

She sighed and let her head lean back in the recess of her chair, letting the wisps of sleep pass through her mind. It let her imaginings run wild.

Hearing of John Wick on the battlefields of Afghanistan, witnessing his destruction of the contracts he took, offering a job in the city she had captured, marveling at the efficiency of his work, listening to the tales of his exploits grow, and wondering at how he had left it all behind.

Then she saw him laying next to broken concrete, broken limbs and bloodied pools by his side. She saw herself walking up to him, a pistol in her hand as she walked over the bodies that he had dropped, the hundreds to thousands of lives that he had taken.

It all led to Balalaika standing over John Wick, gun to his head and victory in her grasp. She smiled cruelly at the idea.

Hotel Moscow checking out the Babayaga.

* * *

Balalaika was an excellent leader, an excellent planner, but she was too blood-thirsty. She wished for war in Afghanistan. She would take risks that led to gun fights, so long as she had more guns. She wanted his presence in Roanapur, a city of thieves and killers, to be more permanent.

John knew all this. And he used it.

He knew, upon waking up, that Rock was no longer present at the Lagoon Company building. He can across where he had gone, and who he was taken by, when he saw a Russian scout by the building. The scout's position was too obvious for John not to notice, not when he knew where to look.

John knew that there were many locations that Balalaika would take potential bargaining chips. And a source of information, no matter what the area, was just that. She must have been aware of what he needed. How she knew, he could not say. But she had become accustomed to the city of Thieves. Where she got her information was not something he was aware of.

But then again, it was beyond his focus. All that mattered was she had it, and he needed it. He did not know how Balalaika was aware of his plan, but that didn't matter.

Focus was paramount now.

Focus had showed him how to interrogate the soldier he had found, out of earshot and eyes glance of his friends. Clean, efficiently, and information the man could give up in hopes of placating him with the idea it wouldn't be enough. But John didn't need much.

He only needed to know the area of that Balalaika had taken Rock to. He needed to know if she was with him. And, most importantly, he needed to know what it happened.

And, now that he had all of that, he had enough.

It was enough to take him to the warehousing areas of Roanapur, both the most protected and most vulnerable part of the city. It was the same in many places around the world. Given the reputation of the city, and the lack of patrolling security between the warehouses, it was easy to confirm multiple factions owned multiple buildings.

A tenuous and volatile situation, but with the limited space the city had to offer, it was likely the grounds of a shaky truce. That was to John's advantage.

Fewer guards outside, outside any of the warehouses, meant fewer points of being seen. That meant he had more time to focus on the warehouse that was his primary concern, and to conceive a plan for assault. And like all plans, it began with the building itself.

A standard warehouse, especially in third world nations, were made of few supports and many thin metal walls. Walls that kept out the more harmful elements, but could hard with stand a bullet, let alone a truck. The Hotel had very likely reinforced those walls with concrete or cement blocks. Fast and easy to stack, with the benefit of taking bullets from most weaponry before shattering. Some, but not from heavy artillery.

The warehouse itself was modest in height, far lower than the many that dotted New York's harbor area. It was outfitted, as John suspected, with widow watches and support. Doubtlessly eyes with high-powered rifles. It made a frontal assault suicidal.

Armed guards were spread out around the bottom of the warehouse as well, behind barricades of steel and concrete. The same materials, or leftovers of them, were likely used for reinforcements. The guards themselves were only moderately impressive.

The difficulty with any guard was the requirement to be constantly vigilant. Even for a trained soldier, that required frequent breaks. Assaulting just before then was optimal, but John did not have the time to scout and check the changes in shift. Even if he did, Balalaika would likely alter them randomly.

The VSK rifle could pick off a good number of soldiers, but then would alert them to his presence. The Hotel was far from incompetent, and such an act would put them on high alert. With his current munitions supplies, and general wounds, taking down the guards present and extracting Rock would be extremely difficult.

Concealment would be difficult as well. Normally, he could hide in a crowd, or at the very least use passages that were hidden from even the eyes of his enemies. But this was the city owned by the Hotel, but kept in control by the fear of the knowledge keepers. Any entry he may have been told was very likely to be whispered to them as well.

There was no honor in the book keepers. They were requirement payment to tell him, but say the same to Balalaika with only the knowledge that she smiled upon him. It was the damnation of the town.

For now, the way to act was to cause a distraction. A distraction that did not require his presence, but caused the damage to one of their men. Destruction of property would easily be seen as a diversion, but the death of a soldier, their soldier, would be impossible to ignore.

Or perhaps, he only needed to make it appear to be the death of their soldier.

He did have the body of the man he had interrogated, kept alive in case there was any guard or protocol John was not aware of. Their body, if put into a place of unrecognition, would spark fear that he was nearby, and locatable if given a sound.

He would need an inconspicuous entrance then, one that was either seldom used or not used often by the guards. Every building had one, and a warehouse, modified as it was, was still a normal building once. It was unlikely, if not impossible, for Balalaika to remove all but one entrance.

A distraction then, timed with his entrance at another door. If he was in luck, there may be soldiers leaving said door in an attempt to flank, if his distraction was sufficient enough. An explosion was sufficient, especially in a place that was housing the goods of multiple factions of Roanapur.

He only had to be sure that it was a door another soldier opened up, not himself. If a door was not used, it could have likely been trapped, or deadbolted. A dead bolted door required force to enter, which would attract too much attention to quickly.

When the fighting began, and the guns started to fire, he couldn't stop moving. That meant he had to be careful. He was already at war now with the Hotel.

The risk was even greater with the nearby warehouses, areas that were likely taken up by other gangs. The knowledge that they were was all the knowledge that he needed. Instigating the Cartel or Triads would be detrimental to his escape from the city of thieves. He just needed to be careful, focused, as he placed the body, the bomb, and the jeep attached.

That could displace the soldiers, especially if Balalaika was not present. He focused on the idea, refining it. There were flaws in the plan, yes, obvious flaws that he could not ignore once given attention, but they could be flaws that may be reconciled.

And he was a man of focus. If he could ruin the attention of his enemy, make them move in a way that was against their training, then he could win.

Victory now was the extraction of Rock from the Lagoon Company. That was enough.

* * *

Nestor took a long drag from the cigarette in his hand. It warmed him in the cool night, cool for the tropics of Roanapur in the very least.

The use of the tobacco stick was not enough to dull his senses, nor to distract him. The Kapitan had told him and his fellow brothers of the man that was coming to take Rock. A man that was more monster than soldier, and more legend than veteran.

He had not cared for the whispers of this Babayaga while he was in Moscow, and the stories had dried up by the time he come to Roanapur. The tales of the man, and what he was capable of, were more than Nestor believed were possible.

But his Kapitan was clear that the man was not only real, but coming. Her orders were stronger than gostpel, so it was his place to question her motives. He was only aware of what he knew.

He knew that his leader stared down rifles in a land full of radicals and monsters, yet had only requested more bullets to fire. Here, she had brought men away from the collection duty and used them as guards against a man known more by his deeds than his face.

It was enough to make him break his taboo of smoking, and warm himself in the night with it.

His eyes remained vigilant as he took in the smoke, staring across the harbor for any sign of the Babayaga, for John Wick. Any sign was sign for worry now, and he was not one to ignore what he could see. He only had to be sure he did not miss anything.

Nestor was sure he would not be the one to cause the death of his brothers, his comrades. So he would remain vigilant, so he would be the one to save them.

Shifting his binoculars again, he looked down the wide expanse between the warehouses, the division between their own modified bunker and the nearby Triad storage. He had questioned at first why they were situated so close to their rivals, but the Kapitan had explained it so easily.

The close proximity to their strongest enemy gave them a great defense against any third parties. No one would dare risk assaulting them here without risking damage to the goods of the Triads. Perhaps someone could escape from their tight grasp on the city, with planning and practice, but to do so with the eye of the Triads looking for them was impossible.

So, to extract Rock from this modified warehouse without gaining the attention of the Triads was nigh impossible.

Though the idea was impossible, Nestor entertained the thought that perhaps he'd be able to relax this guard shift. Perhaps the Kapitan would capture the Babayaga before he ever set food near them. It was something he had no difficulty in imagining from his leader.

What was an American pig compared to the fires of Afghanistan?

" _Comrade Nestor_ , _copy_ ," his radio spoke. Nestor lifted his free hand, depressing the button and lowering his chin to speak into the mike.

"I copy," he returned. Likely a roll-call. Important now more than ever, when the enemy was a coward who would use a knife over a gun.

" _One of our jeeps is parked aside your location. Do you have eye-contact?_ " Not roll-call then. Nestor didn't make a noise or note of his correction. Instead, he flicked his cigarette, raising his flash-light and walking to the nearest location aside his post.

It took little time to find said jeep, parked some distance away. But that was the concering aspect of it. It was parked _too_ far away. The Traids may contest that they are intruding on their territory. That is not something any member of the Hotel would risk would the Kapitan's orders.

"I see it," he returned. "Do you wish for me to investigate?" He would so without question, but only if he had to. To do so otherwise would risk his post.

" _Hold for back-up, then proceed_." Nestor nodded at the command. He followed the orders without question, only wondering now how the jeep had gotten there.

If it was one of theirs, then a comrade would be held liable for creating miscommunication and a spending of resources to check on it. If it was not one of theirs, then the security would go up.

He recognized a diversion when he saw one. Any man who had seen so many battles wou-

"Com… rade?" A voice came from the jeep.

Nestor had his rifled raised in an instant, focusing through the scope, washing the dark out with a hazy green. It showed far more than a simple light. More importantly, it showed him what he heard.

A man was in the jeep. A man rising up from the back seat, wobbling as if he had taken the bottle of Vodka alone. But most importantly of all, it was a man Nestor knew.

"Vasili?" Nestor questioned in returned. How was he here? He was keeping guard on the Lagoon building for the Babayaga to show up there? "Vasili, why are you here?"

"Comrade?" His friend asked again. "I… I do not recall. The Babayaga, he… he attacked me." Nestor bit his lip. Perhaps this John Wick was a more dangerous man than he gave credit for, ambushing a sniper of Vasili's talent… and without lethal force.

"Hold Vasili, hold," Nestor commanded again, never lowering his rifle or taking eyes out of the night-vision scope. "You have been attacked. Hold!" He did not know John Wick, but he knew a trap.

And a trap required bait, as was a comrade alive and well. That meant the trap was close. But it was impossible to tell if it was the jeep itself, or the Babayaga lying in wait.

"Yes… Yes, I… I am-"

 ** _BOOOM!_**

* * *

 _Boom!_

The explosion rocked the far side of the building John hugged, the vibrations running through the sheets of steel. They made for good conductors of vibrations and waves. They were poor at dampening sound. That was ideal.

Already he could hear the Russian words being screamed from around the building, rushing to the remains of the jeep and the man he had killed within. It was wise to have left him alive, for as long as he did.

But John had to focus. The attack started a timer, a timer of when the reinforcement of the Hotel proper would arrive, and when the neighboring warehouses may send their own reinforcements. It was difficult to say how well it would work, given his display at the Yellowflag.

But for now, he only needed to focus and wait for a que

 _BANG!_

The door far aside the wall he held to burst open, two guards running out with rifles raise.

That was John's que.

 **Bang-Bang**

The Takorev Pistol fired accurately, no further than fifty meters. The two men fell in the same time, letting out pained cries as they were hit. The whiplash of their head made it clear John was on target.

He closed the distance to the men quickly, pistol raised as he approached. Russians were cunning, and playing dead was not beyond them. Up closer, he could see the red of their blood leaking from their heads, one hole each.

 **Bang-Bang**

And two made sure they were gone. He didn't have time to search them for ammo. He assumed he had enough, but had to remain focused on his goal.

The door, stuck open by the bodies of the Hotel Moscow guards, gave John easy access to the warehouse. He entered with pistol raised, sweeping the open corridor quickly. No guns were aimed at him, and it was well-lit enough to keep shadows from playing tricks on him.

A camera was aimed on him, on the far side of the hallway. **Bang**. Before it wasn't.

He had to remain focused, and letting the enemy see where he was would ruin that. He had to be quick, efficient, and hidden from view as long as he could.

John hugged the wall as he moved forward, glancing behind him the further he moved in. The guards from the exterior could approach at any time, yet rushing in without knowing the layout would be hazardous. Not to consider Balalaika likely modeled the tunnel for surges.

However, it was a rush job, as he knew. That meant he could succeed. So long as he remained focused. He stopped at the corner, raising his pistol and peeking around it

 _BANG_

He ducked back into cover, one of the concrete blocks of the adjacent walls losing a chunk of its material. The shot was wide, and wide its range. Another shotgun model gun, likely. Not a rifle, as John had seen enough. He had also seen where the shot had come from.

A bunker, of sorts, made by the spare blocks. Hardly to be seen as anything more than convenient cover, but cover enough to require his entire munitions supply to get through it. But there was going to be far more than just one bunker to shoot through.

 _Ka-Chink. "Surrender!"_ A voice shouted from around the wall. " _And perhaps the Kaptian will offer leniency!_ " They would not accept surrender. It was a ploy to be used on weaker men, on thieves.

Perhaps in the city of thieves it would work. A shootout with desperate men coming out to keep their life, only to have it be stolen away just as quickly. It was a common Russian tactic, in seizing land and taking down foes. Short and soft lies for greater gain.

But John was no fool. He was focused.

He bent at the knees, leaning out of cover at half his height. A height that required the opposing gunmen to adjust to. He, however, knew where they were.

 **Bang-Bang**

A pair of bullets took out the gunman, not even a cry of pain. A likely kill shot. Had to be confirmed.

John rolled from his posture, never taking his finger off the pistol's trigger. The moment he stood, he began to walk again, shifting behind himself only once to confirm no other soldiers were approaching, they weren't. But he had to keep moving.

He walked around the barricade, keeping his pistol up as he looked down. Two bullet wounds to the head. Kill shots.

The gun was another KS-23, as he expected. Good for indoor use, given the range and close proximity. It could be useful, if in the short term.

John knelt until he was behind the same barricade, completely covered by approaching men. None were present yet, but John had no intention of waiting. He holstered his pistol, grabbing the shotgun. A 4-gauge model – _Chink_ – that had three shots left.

He didn't have time to look for more. He had to focus. The modified shotgun, would be suitable for the close quarter, and likely would serve the purpose of making his approach faster. That was a priority, to minimize the risk of being flanked too early, thereby stalling his approach.

As John stood, he looked behind himself, the KS-23 raised. There was no one, but that wouldn't be for much longer. He began to move again, this time prepared for barricades.

And they were there, just around the corner.

 **Bang!**

 _BANG!_

And as he had expected, a guard was there to fire at him, too late. He had seen the second shot of the four-gauge weapon

Now that he knew to expect them, he could focus on them. He tune out the shower of gray dust from a missed shot, blowing remains from the cement blocks along the wall. They were not important and beyond his focus.

His focus was on moving forward and aiming for the heads of the men behind cover, watching for the ends of barrels around the corners of walls, and checking to make sure no guards were approaching for a flank.

 _Ratatatata-_

Or ducking behind the opposite end of the hastily built cover as automatic fire came. That was not something to ignore, semi-automatic rounds that had room for approach. He had taken cover before the fifth bullet had flown, a two bullets slower than what he would have once been capable of. But thinking that wasn't important.

What was important was the recognition that the man who had fired had fired blindly, a tactic to force the enemy into cover. A common tactic when you had superior numbers or the intention to escape. Both were viable tactic now that they knew he was here.

 _-taatatatata-_

If the order had come from Balalaika, he could understand what she was thinking.

She was more prepared for common soldiers, having fought against and prepared for common threats for too long. But common threats meant greater numbers, and greater numbers required keeping them in place for long enough to reduce those numbers or remove precious cargo.

But he was not an average soldier, and he was focused on what was at hand.

 _-taatatatata-Chink!_

Like the reloading of a gun.

John ran from the cover, keeping his pistol raised as he did so. The automatic weaponry that was firing on him was removed, likely to reload. It would be too slow.

He swung his fist as he rounded the corner, catching the Russian on the jaw. It was not what the man expected. Him or his partner who was raising his gun as well. But they were not used to their enemies engaging like this.

 **Bang!**

John was.

He shot the third of the shotguns cartridges into the guard he had not punched, removing him from the fight. The guard he had assaulted grabbed at his arm, twisting it. It was not the best situation for him. It forced John to drop the shotgun, bending his back to prevent his arm from fracturing. It was a common Russian tactic, one that John was aware of.

It was how he knew the blow to his back was coming, a foot to his lower spine. But he expected it, focusing instead on not the blow itself, but what to do next.

And next was to draw out the pistol, twisting and stepping back to put room between him and the Russian.

 **Bang-Bang** A double tap to the man's chest had him slump over. **Bang** A final shot to the head had him dead on the ground.

That was five now, five guards and they were just beginning to enter the building again after his distraction. It meant he had to hurry, he had to focus. Focus on the idea that the Russians were using close-range weapons, the automatic weapon clearly now an SR-2 Veresk modified machine gun. Focus on the tight corridors lined with not steel, but concrete.

The focus reminded him of the Russian tactics, of how they would work in the field. The few companies he worked with in Afganistan, before he returned to the states, before he joined the mafia, all used the same tactics when they were establishing bases.

Create bunkers and traps. Bunkers to station one in, and traps that looked just the same. Traps that had claymore mines or grenade bouquets in them. If there was a soldier in a bunker, there wouldn't be a trap.

But just ahead of him, where no guards approached, was a bunker without a man. John could not think of a reason why the soldiers would not be pursuing him from the front now. Not unless they were waiting for the trap first.

Keeping the KS up, a single shot to its munitions left, he looked over the bunker from the far side, in case there was an enemy awaiting to ambush him. There was no enemy, but there was a trap.

A claymore mine, American made, positioned in such a way to blow up should he pass. They had prepared for an assault from a flanking position. But they had not prepared for him. John knew their tactics, and he knew the American weapons.

John reached behind the active mine, a mine that was situated in the hollow holes of a concrete block for support. He hit the safety, on the back of the mine, rendering it harmless to approach, but still live to explode.

Grabbing it, he pulled it up, walking back quickly to the corner of the hallway he had just approached from. There would be a flanking force coming for him, and he'd be ready.

He whipped the edges of his black over-coat, kicking the gray dust and stray bullets off of the material. He was bruised, easily, and likely shredding the remains of the mesh weaving of his suit. It wouldn't last much longer in a fight. He didn't intent to fight for much longer.

He set the mine about the corner, leaning it against the wall and flicking it on. He turned away from it quickly, leaving it to be found by whatever force was unfortunate enough to come across him from the rear.

And by the sound of the boots marching through the halls behind him, that wouldn't be long now.

* * *

 ** _BOOM!_**

Rodion cursed at the sound, gripping the handle of his KS-9. The claymore had gone off, but there was no way to find out if it had done in the target as they had hoped, as he now prayed. He only knew what he did.

This Babayaga, a demon from the Kapitan's past, had taken out nearly a dozen of their men already, with bombs, guns, and whatever other tools a demon had at his disposal.

 _Ratatatat-Bang-Bang-Ratatatat_

Gunfire continued to sound from the corridors farther away from him, a sound he couldn't approach. Not yet. Not while the bunker door stood behind him. He couldn't abandon his post, or else he would dishonor the Hotel's name, and soil the Kapitan's respect.

"Luka! Oleg!" Rodion yelled into his microphone once more, maintaining his positioned exterior the main holding room. "Luka! Oleg! _Respond!_ " He only received more static in return.

 _Bang! Bang!_

"Micheal! Boriv!" He yelled the names aloud now, his mic forgotten as the shooting and fighting approached. He would not until he was given orders to remove his post, but he was becoming acutely aware how close the danger was.

 _Ratatatata! BANG! BANG!_

A danger that continued to bring the fire fight closer and closer to the main bunker. A bunker that Rodion now defended alone.

"Joshua!" Rodion yelled name after name into his mike, but only static returned. And worse yet, so did the sounds of the approaching fighting.

For five minutes the fighting had gone on, since the explosion outside the warehouse. Now there wasn't a sound but his own breathing.

Rodion cursed into the mic, raising his KS up as he stared down the hallway. The modified bunker he sat at was guarded enough, but he still needed to expose himself to aim, and that was likely room enough for a demon like John Wick to get him.

This Babayaga truly was the demon that the Kapitan made him out to be. Using an IED to blow up one of their stolen jeeps, and the men that had gone to investigate it. Using the rear entry way, and being prepared for their troops leaving it, and not to mention how the barricades they had assembled did little to no good against him. Not even their own claymores seemed to slow him down.

Rodion couldn't explain it, and he hated the idea of having to recognize it, but this John Wick… it seemed he knew of their plans better than they did themselves. If this was the strength of an American working for the Russians, then he was knowledgeable now of why the man was so revered.

It didn't mean he wouldn't kill him.

Rodion adjusted his stance, keeping his hands on his gun as he kept watch. The moment any man rounded the corner, he would shoot. His fellow Hotel members were aware of the danger and would not make the mistake. John had to check first.

 _Ka-Chink-chink-chink_

Rodion looked up at the sound, watching as something hit one of the reinforced walls, bouncing into the open hallway. He followed it for a moment, just long enough to recognize it. But it was a moment that he would regret.

It was a flash bang

 _BING!_

"GAH!" Rodion yelled out as his senses were crushed, blinded by the light and deafened by the sound. He knelt back in his cover, refusing to drop the gun and risk the Babayaga killing him with it. Instead, he focused on his recovery, hastening it.

He shut his eyes crouched in the corner, covering his ears. His breathing calmed, shaking his head, straightening his posture, anything to make the lights fade faster. His shut eyes started to blink, focusing on the outlines in front of him. The door the safe room, the gun in his hand.

And the demon of a man standing in front of him.

The man, dressed in a suit black as shadows and a tie to match and hair that was more appropriate on the head of a beggar than a ruthless killer. He didn't shake as he stood above Rodion's prone form, not even as he aimed the pistol at his head.

Rodion recognized the pistol, a Takorev pistol, aimed at his head. He did not recognize the man behind it. The only other thing he could recognize, through the flashes of white that still dotted his gaze, were the man's eyes.

They were focused, on him.

"… keys…" The man said, and his lips moved. There was more being said, but Rodion couldn't hear. It was obvious what he wanted though.

He wanted entry to the room.

"No," he spoke back, simply. And the Babayaga answered simply.

 **BANG!** With a bullet to his leg.

"GYAAAAH!" Rodion yelled, dropping his gun and grabbing at his leg. Blood shot from the wound, missing his leg but turning the meat of his thigh into a useless mass. It was far from the first time he was shot, but it was never a pleasant sensation.

Even more so knowing that the man kept the gun on him, still smoking, and carrying more bullets.

"The keys… now," the man spoke the sentence again, assumingly the same one. Rodion sneered up at him, careless of the man's threat. The Babayaga appeared far more apathetic to him.

"…. No." Rodion forced out through grit teeth, knowing what it meant. But it was a risk he had accepted long ago. The members of the Hotel never lived long. Perhaps it was time he checked out.

John Wick lowered the gun again, perhaps aiming for his other leg.

 **BANG!**

Rodion tensed, hearing the sound, but he felt no pain. He didn't need to check his leg to wonder why. The true source of the sound was immediately obvious. That was the metal door to the bunker, swinging open.

Both he and the Babayaga turned to the open doorway. There, standing in it, was the purple-haired gunman of the Lagoon Company, dressed in a crop-top and hot pants, and snarling like the mad dog that she was.

Then, like a bat out of hell, the Lagoon woman ran out, arms raised and striking at the man. It was too quick for Rodion to catch what the woman did, let alone react to it. Yet it appeared to be almost predicted to the Babayaga.

He leaned back, dodging the punch from the woman. He sidestepped then avoiding a kick from the opposite side. When he reacted again, it was to strike.

The Babayaga twisted his body, lowering his center of gravity, striking at the girl's own. It was a Russian move, a Russian strike and he did it like it was second nature. But the girl wasn't a Russian, she was a mad dog.

The strike hit, but it only gave the girl leverage. Leverage to grab his arm and twist. She did so with a twist of her body, trying to swing the Babayaga's arm over her head. An arm break, if he recalled the American maneuver.

But it didn't work. The Russian fighting method was too strong.

His leg rose up, kicking the back of the girl's legs. They bent under the force, rendering the arm-break maneuver useless. All she succeeded now was pulling the Babayaga forward a bit. But he still had a gun on her.

 _Thwack!_

Until she swung her arm backwards knocking it out of his hand. Rodion was impressed, but the Babayaga hardly reacted. At least, not like it wasn't expected.

His hand now free, he hit at the Lagoon woman's shoulder, weakening her grip on his arm and letting it slide out. He kept his arms close, center of gravity small, as he delivered two quick punches to her chest. The blows were obvious.

"GAH!" The woman let out, falling back under the assault. "Fucking bastard!" The girl roared before charging again. She charged again, this time swinging low to high. An upper cut, likely to destabilize his posture. It didn't work.

Like he expected it, the Babayaga leaned back, letting the blow swing far and high, missing drastically. He reached up in the same moment grabbing at her arm. A locking maneuver. It would have worked, if the woman hadn't clearly expected it.

"Got you!" She yelled, slipping her bare arm out of his hold, grabbing at his own. And she did, a twist maneuver that kept his arm locked within hers. It was disadvantageous, and a move Rodion was glad to see. Perhaps this woman could take down the Babayaga, long enough for him to make a move.

He reached for his KS-9, ignoring the pooling blood of his leg. Killing the enemy of the Hotel was paramount.

 _Thwack!_ If only he could do it.

No sooner did his hands touch the gun than did the Babayaga's foot sweep by, kicking it far and away from him. It slid down the hallway, far out of range. All while he wrestled with the Lagoon girl. That wasn't going to last much longer.

She quickly raised her free leg, trying to ram it into the stomach of the Babayaga. At first, it looked successful. The man doubled over at the blow, either not expecting or too slow to react to it. The woman did the motion again, and again, but the effectiveness wore off quickly.

Rodion couldn't tell if the Babayaga was jumping to avoid the blows, had put his arm in the way, or simply gotten used to the attack. Regardless, the outcome was the same.

The Babayaga twisted his own arm, letting it fall over the girl's shoulder like it belonged there. Before she could react now, he grabbed her arm, pulling his free, and twisting it behind her back. That was no Russian move. That was an American move.

A 'chicken-wing' if Rodion recalled correctly. A debilitating move that kept the girl's back to him, and range of motion shot. _Slam_ Motion that was further restricted by slamming her against the wall.

"GAH!" she yelled out, caught behind the man. "You fucker! Let go of me right now or I'll-"

 **CRACK**

"GYAAAAHYAA!" The Lagoon girl yelled as the sound echoed through the stone hall. It was impossible for Rodion to miss. Not only the sound but the maneuver.

The Babayaga, holding the girl, never heeded her words. He just held her arm, put his shoulder to her back, and pulled. It wasn't a move to break, an arm, but to debilitate an opponent. He had pulled her arm from its socket. It would take time to reset it. Time neither of them had.

"FUCK! Shit!" The girl yelled as she fell back, clutching at her arm. He didn't even care to study her. He was reaching for something on the ground again. Rodion knew what it was instantly, and the same as the Lagoon girl.

"And fuck that, too!" The woman yelled. She spun with her leg, trying to strike again, but it did no good.

 **Bang!**

With a pistol in hand he was more than ready now.

"GHAAAA!" The girl yelled again, this time with a pain the same as Rodion's own. A bullet wound through the leg, making it mush to the touch. He could already tell it was through-and-through, the bullet having lodged itself into the wall nearby. But that did not mean the girl was well.

Blood pooled behind her, John Wick standing high above her, gun in hand and ready to fire again. Those same focused eyes looked down at the girl, through his black bangs and the Lagoon girl's own lavender locks.

It took that long for Rodion to realize why the Babayaga was so feared to the Kapitan. He wasn't just strong, or capable, or even skilled.

He was just focused. Focused on what he had to do. It was that focus that was going to kill the Lagoon girl, then himself. And likely Rock as well.

At least the Kapitan would kill him in the end.

"STOP!" Came another shout from the room. Rodion knew who that was. And it was his job to protect the man.

"NO! Stop!" He yelled back into the room, still clutching his useless leg. The man didn't stop though, Rock stepping out in his Japanese Salaryman attire. He wasn't even looking at Rodion. "Get back inside! Lock the door! Now!" If he did that, then he would be safe.

"Leave her alone, please," the Jap was talking, talking, to the Babayaga. The value the Kapitan saw in him must have been deep, because Rodion saw only stupidity now. It was the girl's fault for putting his life in danger in the first place!

"Rock! Get the _fuck_ back inside!" Even the girl agreed now! "Hurry! Before this fucker does-" She stopped herself, and it was a small mystery why.

The Babayaga was walking towards him. He was walking towards Rock!

Rodion looked for his gun, seeing it just by the edge of his feet. If he bent, neglected his wound, he could reach it. He could reach it, grab it, and fire it. But in that time… the Babayaga would easily have been able to empty his clip into him.

"ROCK! You fucking idiot! Get back inside!" The Lagoon girl kept yelling. She was clearly in no better position, arm dismantled and leg shot like Rodion's own. "That fucker is going to kill you!" No, he wasn't, at least not yet.

Rodion knew that, even as he watched the Babayaga stop in front of Rock, towering over the short Japanese man. The difference in skill, in strength, in ability, was clear on sight. Rock was nothing more than foolish, and the Babayaga was ruthless.

"I swear to god Rock, if you let him kill you, I'll dig a hole to hell and kill you all over again you limp dick fucker!" Neither man flinched at the girl's words. Rodion was merely looking for a way to attack.

He had no knives to reach for, and the Babayaga was faster than he was. There was little he could think to do, and it sickened him.

"So… are you going to-" Anything Rock thought the Babayaga was going to do never happened.

Not after he was pistol whipped across the side of his head.

" _NO! You father-sucking bastard!_ " The Lagoon girl yelled as Rock's body hit the ground, hard. It was instantly apparent he was out cold. A hit like that, along the head, from a man as strong as the Babayaga. There was no way he was still awake.

But the Babayaga paid no mind. He reached down, grabbed Rock by the collar, and lifted him. He lifted the man like bag of trash, dragging him down the hall. And that was exactly what he did.

The Babayaga dragged Rock down the passageway he came in from.

Rodion moved for his gun the moment he could, foregoing the spilling of his blood for the chance to shoot the enemy of the Hotel. Better to die succeeding than giving up on the floor.

He bent his good leg, putting weight on it as he watched the Babayaga turn down the hallway, Rock motionless in his hand. He was out of sight by the time Rodion was on his good leg, shakily, and blood quickly spilling down his leg. He would have to endure.

"Can you stand?" He asked the Lagoon girl, shuffling past her. She had a good leg still, like him, but he also had to arms. She lacked on of her own.

"Fuck me!" The Lagoon girl yelled, pointing ahead with a bloody hand and loose arm. "Get Rock! Stop that fucker from getting away!" Her course words were unnecessary, but she was correct.

Rodion pulled himself up, pushing against the wall for support. He grabbed his pistol, cocking the gun as he dragged his feet forward. He stepped over the perforated bodies of his friends, of his comrades, as he kept his gaze forward.

The Babayaga was pulling a hostage with him, an unwilling an unconscious one at that. He only had one had to use, and Rodion was wounded. But that was unimportant. He only needed to shoot the man once and he would go do. A shot in the back would at least down the Babayaga, if not manage to kill him.

He ignored the pain in his leg, the bullet wound and gift from the enemy of the Hotel. His wounds were not important, only the mission was. Only the mission to stop John Wick from gaining any information, no matter how minor, from Rock.

Rodion stopped at the corner peeking out far enough to ensure he was not to be shot. He saw only the same lightly lit hall, covered now in blood and gray dust from the fire fight. But no John Wick.

He turned the corner quickly, holding his gun out at the ready just in case. But still there was no John Wick or Rock. That meant he had to hurry. He still could-

 _Click_

Rodion looked down, at the wall of cinderblocks they had constructed a few hours ago. He saw a cut string, a collection of grenades, and a spare pin at his feet.

"Huh?" **_BOOM!_**

* * *

 _Boom!_

John didn't look behind him as the trip-wire he had assembled went off. It gave him time to escape, as he had predicted. It was beyond his focus to check on how efficient it was.

"Dammit! Rock!" The girl yelled again far behind them now, but John paid her no mind. She was disarmed and disabled. She was no longer a threat. Plus, she was a friend of Dutch. Even if his old friend had betrayed him to Balalaika, John wouldn't betray him. She was not a member of the Hotel either.

It was Dutch and Balalaika who were in trouble, not the girl. The girl was just defending a friend, that was all.

John dragged the unconscious body of Rock behind him, keeping one hand available on the pistol, five bullets at the ready. Enough to kill five men foolish enough now to get in his way.

But there were no men left, none of the Hotel guards present to get in his way. Even as John walked through the quickly constructed walls, he passed the fallen bodies of the Russian men, all killed by his hands.

Some by bullets to the head, some with initial wounds to the chest, a few with knife wounds in the back of their head, and eve more with snapped bones. They were all very strong, but hardly experienced enough.

The barricades were good, slowing him down ,but he was prepared for the flanking, and the lack of secondary entrances made the path the same. It meant he could prepare for them as well. And there was only so much cover, and so much room, a refurbished hallway could offer.

The war they had been ready for in the open was nothing like the war he had endured. And he was focused on a task tot complete. They were focused on just living to the next day.

 _BANG_

John kicked the side door to the warehouse, leaving out the side. The exposed jeep the soldiers had used was waiting there. He fished the keys from his jacket pocket, even as she pulled Rock behind him and held the Tokarev pistol.

And the girl, Revy, continued to yell behind him. John didn't care, he wasn't focused on that. He was focused on escaping with the cargo.

When he was next to the jeep, John bent down and picked up the Japanese man by his waist. He was small and thinly set. It was easy to lift him into the back of the truck, well enough to not risk his position in a drive.

The door the jeep slammed shut, John already walking swiftly around it. He had to hurry, as the area was no longer safe. The keys were in the ignition before he had even set down in the seat, turning them and letting the engine roar to life.

He was on the gas a second later, racing away from the warehouse and the bodies he had left behind. He didn't care for the shouts he heard or anything else. John was focused on the drive now, and nothing more.

He had gotten what he had come for.

* * *

" _Shit! No!_ " Revy yelled as she threw the hand gun against the ground. It clattered uselessly, just as useless as her fucking arms. " _Fucking shit! Hell fucking fire up at bitch's cunt!_ "

Her screaming echoed through the bullet-perforated walls and broken concrete blocks. The empty warehouse didn't do anything now but just yell back at her what she was screaming, and Revy _fucking_ hated it.

She hated it _almost_ as much as the bullet wound in her leg, the dislocation of her right arm, or the way that John _fucking_ Wick had taken her to task like she was a fly on the wall, and he was the almighty fly swatter.

What she hated, with all of her black heart, was what she realized through her cold fury.

John Wick, the damn boogeyman of New York, had kidnaped Rock.

Air hissed through her teeth, a clenched jaw threatened to crack the molars in her mouth. She didn't care. After this, the Big Sis was probably going to shoot all her men, or just her, or just give a snide fucking comment about how dumb she was. Like salt on the wound!

"The _fuck!?_ _Why_ the _fuck?!_ " Revy lifted and slammed her head against the dry wall, cracking it and leaving an indent into it. She snarled into it, leave spit and venom in the plaster.

She did more damage to a fucking wall with her damn head than she did to a fucking _single man_ with the _Hotel_ on her side. Useless, fucking useless.

"Why the ever loving _fuck?!_ " Revy shouted again. This time, with a bang of her head forward. It was too much for her tired body.

Already dragging itself through the hall, she faltered and fell over, body collapsing into the wet mess that was the warehouse ground. She couldn't even tell if it was blood, gasoline, or whatever other liquids you'd find in an abandoned warehouse flour.

It could've been used spunk from Eda's last fuck and it still wouldn't've have pissed Revy off any more than she already was. Nothing could match the absolutely hatred she felt right now.

For herself.

" _Always_ him! Why? Why the _fuck?!_ " And she needed to know. She _really_ needed to know.

Rock had something, or knew something, that made the literal demon of the killing world come after him. Not just to kill. No, that'd be too fucking easy for the boogeyman, apparently.

Apparently, John _fucking_ Wick thought it was fair game to raid the Hotel hideout, take out like _two dozen_ of Big Sis's men, then fucking _kidnap_ John Wick while leave _her alive!_ She preferred a fucking bullet in the head over this!

At least then she could haunt the fucker.

But… that wasn't right. No, not yet.

Revy's hand dug into the ground, fisting itself until her knuckles dragged along the wet surface. She hissed until her spit mixed with whatever the sticky liquid was. She didn't care about it, about anything. She only cared about the _one_ thing in this fucking city that mattered.

It wasn't the job, it wasn't the Hotel, wasn't the booze, and sure as fuck wasn't the guns. All awesome in combination, and a great way to pass the time, but they meant absolute shit.

All that mattered was that Revy was the gun, and Rock was the bullet.

It didn't matter if the devil himself had stolen her magazines. She was a determined bitch, and she wasn't going to let her bullets go to waste. Even if that meant hunting the fucker all the way to Georgia.

She was the only one who could use Rock right.

"Wait up, partner," Revy hissed to herself, for herself. She'd shoot any Russian still alive to hear it, damn the consequences. "I'm going to grab the devil by the horns and _fuck_ him up the ass for you." She didn't even care if he took her life for the effort.

Not so long as Rock was safe.

* * *

The first thing to hit Rock's senses was a flash of light.

And it was blinding.

Blinding enough that he raised his hands in an effort to block it, but found his hands unable to move. He didn't need to see to tell they were bound. Bound together, then bound to a table, or something close, right in front of him.

It was similar to how Watsup held 'criminals' in the police station, or just crooks who forgot to pay towards the protection fund. Normally it involved police cuffs and a metal bracket secured to the table. This didn't feel like that.

It felt like his hands were bolted to the table. No give at all. That made things considerably worse.

But where was he? The last thing Rock could recall was being dragged out of Balalaika's warehouse by John, Revy shouting at him as he was dragged away. Shew as okay, which was good. But all of the Hotel's men were either injured or dead. That was bad.

Still though, the light was far too bright for him to even get a look for where he was at. He couldn't twist his head enough to avoid it. And what little Rock could see outside of it showed nothing but gray walls and dark shadows. Almost anywhere in Roanapur.

He sighed, working his stiff jaw with the expulsion of air. His chest was tight, probably from how he was handled. This was far from the first time Rock had been kidnapped like this, and it was never gentle. Ever. Why would the worst of the worst treat him any differently?

Speaking of though, Rock couldn't see John.

He could have been in the room for all he knew, but the light was too bright for him to tell. But he couldn't hear anything obvious, not that there was any noise either. It was just a quiet bright room, uncomfortable in every sense of the word.

The salaryman shifted his shoulders, the little he could adjust with his arms bound to the table. It still didn't do much for him, making him feel tight, constricted, and trapped. That was probably the point.

A basic interrogation method, one that Rock was, unfortunately, starting to become aware of. But if that was the case, then it wouldn't be long before John showed back up.

It all depended on how long he had been waiting for, 'stewing' being the term most of the more common crooks used. Leave him alone with his thoughts until he wanted to speak. It was the obvious method, one that he didn't expect someone like John to use.

Then again, Rock didn't know what to expect from John.

He only knew that being able to talk on all of the Hotel, or at least its major fighters, and walking away was something he couldn't underestimate. He had beaten Revy easily, outplayed Balalaika, and was getting ready to interrogate Rock. He could only wonder why.

 _Bing_

And then the light adjusted, making it easier to see.

And across from the table, sitting easily by the now far dimmer light, was the man in question.

John Wick, the Babayaga.

Rock stared at the man in front of him. He had many questions, and knew so few of them would be answered, if they could be. It was hard to think of a question why he was being tied down to the table.

It was more obvious now that his arms, were indeed, bolted to the table. Specifically, by metallic braces fashioned for just this purpose. It still didn't help Rock figure out where he was.

It only confirmed that John was no man to be trifled with, with or without a gun. And even though Rock couldn't see a gun on John's person, that didn't mean he didn't have one.

Because he looked the same. He looked the same now as he did when he was shooting the Russians, fighting Revy, and dragging him out of the warehouse. He looked exactly the same, and that was what made Rock nervous.

He had bene tied up before, held down and interrogated. He had been abused by Koreans, Russians, Americans, and even Cubans when they were in town. But all of them acted differently in an interrogation. Dutch even said that was the trick, being a different person when you wanted answers than when you wanted lives.

But John Wick looked exactly the same. Rock couldn't tell if he wanted answers… or wanted his life.

And that made him nervous.

"Rock." He almost missed the man speaking his own name, even in the otherwise silent room. "I need answers."

And that answered one question for Rock. He had no idea how many more he would get.

Let alone if he'd be able to speak of them again.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

And now we get to the exciting part of the story. An interrogation with John Wick doing the talking.

I'll be honest. Though I started out this story with the idea of (spoiler) having John establish a new Continental in Roanapur and taking over the gangs, I realized that's not what John would want, at all. His character is he's had enough killing and will just try and leave it let live. The whole plot of movie two was to kill everyone who wanted to kill him, them get out. He even went back to his home to die after he 'finished it'.

So, that leads to this story doing two things. 1) Finishing in the next few chapters with one, maybe two, more fight scenes. 2) Leaving off at a point that feels like it belongs, that with all the characters either satisfied or getting paid their dues for actions rendered.

then... yeah, I'd say three more chapters, maybe four, going something like.

Interrogation - Information - Assault - Escape(?)

This and my other story, MagicTale, are both hopefully going to be finished soon.


	8. Think

John watched the young salaryman, studying him.

He was not the typical individual who would be in these scenarios. Far from the killers, thieves, or lords that would so often be at either end of the thin table. A man with hardly the muscle to withstand a blow, let alone the determination to fire a bullet, hardly seemed the part of an interrogator.

Were it not for his employment by Dutch, a man whom Jack knew would not risk his company with unstable assets, he would have though the man nothing more than a pawn, a convenient scapegoat for men like him.

Lingering doubts were removed when he focused on the man's name. Rock. It was not a given name, obviously. A nick-name, an alias. Something that was given to him to include him. A common tactic amongst thieves and public criminals, killers who wanted to hide in plain sight.

Rock, this Japanese salaryman, however, was hardly a thief and far from a killer. Perhaps he had stolen from some company he had worked for before, or it was possible he pushed deals in his favor, but he did not have the hands, body, or eyes like the many others in the City of Thieves.

Given the way he acted at the Lagoon company the day ealier, it was possible he was nothing more than a convenient clerk for Dutch to use. Someone to help mitigate the difference between the numbers on paper and crates in the ship. Possibly, but unlikely.

Sawyer had said that this man had information about the city, the obvious and unobvious. The information broker that knew secrets to tell, or how to find the secrets that needed to be told. In any country they hailed from, be they New York's depths or Italy's twisted roads, they didn't prefer to fight.

They preferred to talk and listen.

It was not something John was comfortable with, so often preferring to be the executioner, not the interrogator. One had the information and used it. The other gathered information and sold it. It was so often what made broker's the unannounced neutral ground of any territory or spat between the powers or gangs.

In a sense, if John focused on it, it would explain why Balalaika took to protect Rock instead of outright killing him. He was useful to her beyond the simplicity of his post at the Lagoon company.

And now John had to make use of the man as well. He was a man who was thrown into this world and was just trying to survive.

John knew if he could work with that. So long as he focused on it.

"You want answers?" Rock returned the previous question. "I… don't know if I know anything that can help you." Despite his position, still spoke politely. No differently than if they were speaking over a meal in the Continental. "I hardly know anything about you. I guess I'm too new still."

An odd choice of words, but something John focused on. New, as in new to the world of criminals. His instincts were correct.

"Besides, I may be new, but I know better than to freely give information." Perhaps not too inexperienced. To survive in the City of Thieves, you needed some form of talent, no matter how corrupt it was. "Anything I tell you… you'll probably end up using to kill someone, or a lot of people."

"Maybe," John spoke back, simply. He wasn't entirely wrong. "But I don't have to." They were all the words that were needed. Information brokers, if Rock was one such as Sawyer had said, preferred facts over words. The uncontestable.

It was difficult, seeing as majority of the interrogations he took part in were in foreign nations, where the mere act of speaking another's language was seen as some form of middle ground. Recognition that it was _worth_ learning.

Here, they already shared a common language. A bridge that crossing would not serve. He had to focus on acts beyond that then. Things his commanding officers would have done to ease information out of sources.

Not torture, not beatings. Those worked when information was available, but not when the accused was already terrified. It would do not good. He couldn't focus on that.

John needed to focus on words. Words and actions. The right decisions with the right questions would give the right answers.

He thought of the words to say, watching Rock carefully as he did so. The Japanese man stared back at him, eyes shadows by the singular light above them, still as the table between them. He was nervous, afraid, or at the very least wary. Not a threat, or at least a significant one.

But John was to him, and the man knew it. That had t obe a bridge John crossed. A way to show this man he was not a threat, not to his well-being right now. He needed information, not his life.

Understanding that, John drew his pistol.

Rock flinched at the sight of it, staring at it with a stiff body. Not a killer at all. Still, far from the mad panic typical of the uninitiated in the world of killers. He was familiar with them, but didn't like them. That was good enough for John. It wasn't what he was focused on.

Instead of switching the safety or cocking the hammer, John placed the gun on the table, between the two of them. It sat there for a minute, long enough for Rock to understand what it was, and for John to watch the man.

Then, with a small flick, he pushed the gun to the far edge of the table out of reach of either man. Rock watched it slide, grinding on the metal surface until it came to a halt. John watched him instead. He was the primary focus here, not the gun.

He watched Rock's wary eyes turn back to him. Confusion, obviously, but thankfully. Confusion meant they could be convinced. That was difficult without torture, and John would not torture this man.

He wanted information for his escape, not blood to bathe in.

"I don't want to kill you." And he didn't. "I don't want this to take longer than it has to." Because time was already short, and every second used to speak was a second Balalaika or the killers of the city closed in on him. "I only want information from you. Answers."

He watched the Asian man slowly swallow on nothing, trying to calm his nerves. An appropriate reaction given the circumstances, though likely assuming that John was lying. He was not, but it was not something he could show proof of. No more than he already had.

"What kind of answers are you looking for?" The question came on a neutral tone, neither insulting, aggravated, or worried. But neither was it a calm voice. It was controlled, neutral. The salaryman was focusing on his voice.

John did the same to his own words.

"I want to leave Roanapur." It was never a secret. "I need a boat to do so. But any crafts in the bay are now likely to tell either the Hotel, Triads, or anyone else that they have me." And it would mean his attempted capture, which would mean another fight.

More bullets, more death, and still no escape.

John watched Rock roll over the words, fighting some instinct he couldn't understand. It was clear he knew something, given his lack of dismissal for help. He was too naïve, too new, to possibly be able to hide himself well enough in a conversation.

He was no Russian boss, no high ranking Cartel member. This Japanese salaryman wore his emotions on his face, whenever they were present.

It was only because John was focusing on him that he realized just how few the man had.

He didn't scream when he woke up. He didn't cry at the sight of the gun. He didn't shout at being cuffed. He only ever was confused and wary. Understandable given the world they were in.

But not so for someone how was still new to the world.

John continued to focus on the man, letting the silence between them linger. There was nothing more he could say until he had answers, and torture so rarely produced the right ones. He only need patience and focus.

Focus on getting the answers, goading them out of the man in front of him. But what could bring out those answers when the questions themselves didn't? This wasn't the infiltration of a clandestine club, or a rave in the crypts. This was an interrogation beneath a rotten home.

John had to get his answers, but violence wouldn't work. He didn't need to focus to know that.

He needed to focus to figure out what would.

"Why are you in Roanapur?" John asked instead. It was a question that he didn't know the answer to, again, but one that may take him a step closer to the ones he wanted.

Rock's face was riddled with more confusion. Not for the question, not, but the timing. John knew it was an odd question for his line of work. But Marcus had said that informants only speak truthfully to those they trust, and trust was built on conversation and action. He only had one of those to work with.

"I… was abandoned here. By my old boss." Unfortunate, but not unpredictable. There were only a few reasons someone as vulnerable as the man would be in the city of twisted killers and desperate thieves. "Dutch offered me a job at his company, as a negotiator… of sorts." He didn't sound confident with his words.

John was not an expert in these areas. He could not tell if the lack of sureness in the man's voice was from lack of confidence or lack of truth. His absence from this city did not help. Verification of what he said was all the more difficult to do.

"He said I had a knack for idea. Or, more like, after having Revy shoot at me for a bit, I got used to the situation." A lack of shell-shock was a good quality for a company in Roanapur. "He figured that if I could keep my head in most fights like that, I'd be good to keep around. Most for negotiation and inventory."

Not fighting. That was beyond his words. Not fighting, shooting, or combat. He was a non-combatant. John thought of Dutch for a moment, focusing on him.

Dutch was not the kind of man to risk something so incredible as this. Non-combatants in hot zones like Roanapur was a poor decision. Risks like that were only made when a lack of alternative tracks were available. A lack of intel or a lack of contacts.

His old friend was not short on contacts, but intel was quick to come and just as quick to change. It was changed the cleaner of Roanapur from Tom to the new mute Sawyer. Keeping track of that intel was critical for an operation to succeed.

It was good to know, but it was beyond the immediate focus. Now was not the time to complain. It was the time to focus.

"Why have you stayed?" There were men in John's unit who stayed in Afghanistan following their tour. Working for the farmers and locals. Those same circumstances were not present here.

"Because… I trust them. Dutch, Benny, and Revy." He didn't recognize two of those names. One was the girl he had crippled, doubtlessly, but he didn't know who Benny was. "The work isn't honest, _very_ far from it but… but I can at least do it." Interesting comment.

"Did you perform poorly with you last job?" In the army, it would warrant a dismissal. In most public jobs, a scolding. There was no quitting the life he had entered now though. Either of them.

"No, well, not like you think." John didn't think of anything but the man's words. "I did what was asked of me and that was it. There wasn't much use in doing anything more, because it wasn't like I'd see where it would go, or even what to _really_ do."

It was a confidence issue then. At least it sounded like it to John. Rock's words were becoming more sure, stronger. His voice was still meek, a reflection of his body and lack of skills, but he no longer stumbled for the answers. It was progress.

Maybe, if John focused on that growing good mood, he could gain his answers.

"What have you done for Dutch?" Given the privacy of his one-time contact in the decrepit city, he knew asking any stranger to help with his work was far from normal. Something must have happened or the tasks must have been inconsequential.

"Huh? Oh! Um, things like… like talking to Yolanda about shipping deals, or Mr. Chang with private affairs. He said that I have more patience to deal with people like them than he does." John focused on those words.

Mr. Chang and Yolanda were very open to talk and used that talent to talk about nothing often. Circles of words meant to confuse and twist proceedings into beneficial transactions, for them. Dutch was a businessman, but Rock was a salaryman. It was not difficult to believe he had more patience than a long-term resident of the Roanapur.

"One time, for Mr. Chang, we had to deliver a packet of intelligence to their operatives in the Korea Peninsula. Because we were a third party, it would have been harder to track us than the Triads themselves." John was focused on the words, and he saw the error in them.

"How were you involved?" Rock didn't mention himself.

"Oh! Um… I actually got… captured." John felt his brow rise in confusion. That was hardly ever a part of a plan, good or bad. "But, when I was, I was able to talk to their leader, because they thought I had the information on me. And when I did, over time, I got him to trust me as well."

That would be a beneficial skill to have. Gaining the trust of captors or would be killers.

"So, when Revy showed up to rescue me, and she does that a lot, the man didn't try to kill me." John focused on Rock's words. They couldn't be true. "He did try to _capture_ me, yeah. But… when we were near the DMZ, he didn't fire at us or anything. He just… let us go."

He made a friend out of an enemy, it sounded like. An enemy loyal to the cause he swore to, so not to give Rock up, but enjoying the man's company enough to not wish him dead. Perhaps Dutch did bring Rock in for a reason.

But that reason wasn't why John had him here.

"And another time, when Revy and I were making deliveries to the Rip-Off Church, Yolanda tried to pay us only two thirds of the agreed amount." John knew in a city of thieves that was dangerous, but so was the woman herself. "Her logic was sound enough, stating that her profits were lowered due to lull in active shootings in Roanapur, meaning that she could provide less product."

In a place without laws to protect or rules to guide, that had a chance to survive. It would not have worked in New York or any other city with a Continental. But perhaps that was why one failed to form here.

"So, I convinced her that, following the same logic, we should charge more for our services when high activity occurs, such as doing runs for the Triads or Cartel." An intelligent counter point. "She laughed and relented, saying that it would have worked on Dutch." And it might have. Dutch was a man who valued his connections and cut them off only when they were clearly more harmful that beneficial. John knew he was one such bridge now.

But that wasn't the concern for John right now. It was Rock. Or, specifically, the mistake he had made. It was because John was focused on Rock's words that he saw it. Or rather, he saw what wasn't there.

Rock was avoiding talks involving the Hotel.

"What jobs have you done for Balalaika?" Rock stiffened at the words. John was unsurprised.

He waited for a response, knowing that Rock was wary of speaking about the woman. He couldn't deny the connection between them, not when she knew him so well and Dutch was a frequent source of labor for her. But he didn't know what to say.

Because he was hiding something.

"… The most recent job for her was in Japan." Rock focused on the words immediately. She had brought him home, but he was still here. Why? "She needed a translator to help her with creating connections with the Yakuza there. She wanted to… help the homeland-based mob with their connections, specifically gun and labor trafficking."

A translator, not a negotiator, but one that he must have been skilled in for Balalaika to bring him along. It was good to know, but not the focus. Balalaika knew John needed information, not a translator. Something else must have happened.

"While there… Balalaika decided to kill most of the competition and gangs, so that the only Yakuza heads left would be subordinate to her… and only her." That was the Balalaika John was familiar with. Rock was not used to it, or in the very least, did not know how to deal with it. But that was beyond his focus. "I helped her because I understood the men, and I knew where most of them were based."

Guilt then. Common in those who weren't thieves, more so in those who weren't killers. It explained his apathy. Perhaps even his reluctance to speak.

Focusing on what John had heard, Rock said Balalaika was the only person he worked for who killed potential business partners. He was, potentially, in that list. The fear of death did make tempting fate a more likely choice.

"But then… one of them was a girl." Women were common, though not prevalent, in the underworld. "A high school girl that… wanted to leave her family for a normal life." That was less common.

John didn't need to focus on Rock to know what happened. To see his face twist, the emotions bare on his skin, raw and uncontrolled, was evidence enough.

"I made a gamble with Balalaika to… spare her." Rock did not lack in determination, at least. "And she agreed to it." It must have been something substantial Rock offered.

But whatever it was was beyond John's focus. He cared for Rock at the moment, and the answers he had.

"But the girl she… she still believed it was too late. She kidnapped me, like this." Rock jangled the cuffs he was in. John didn't blink. "Revy caught up to us, saved me, and… had to kill her." That was the safe option, John knew. But he also knew saying such words would make Rock see him negatively.

If that happened, he might never get his answers. There was a more appropriate response, one that many people told him not too long ago.

"The worst part is, she didn't have to die. She…" He was trying to control himself. His naivety may have been gone, but he had yet to replace it with a cool heart. A novice, but beyond John's immediate focus. "She just saw no other way." The question to follow was obvious.

"Did you see another way?" the Japanese man no longer shirked at his voice. An improvement, small but there.

"Yeah," he answered in turn. "The gamble was Balalaika would leave her and her family alone. Ig to her what she needed, the trade routes and blood, but…" Rock's head shook. A memory unkind to him. All too common in a city of thieves.

John waited patiently. He need to be focused on what Rock would say, not the speed he said it. He time, if some, to let the man speak.

"But she didn't. She just thought… there was nothing left for her." A sentiment John could understand. Rock's expressions showed he did not. "And the more I think about it I… I can't think of what else to do. Everything was just that. Gone."

Perhaps John was wrong. Maybe Rock did understand.

"I'm sorry for your loss." John watched as Rock's face, still raw from the loss, twisted into confusion. Perhaps he didn't understand the sentiment. No. More likely he didn't expect it from John himself. "Losing someone is difficult." More words he heard people say at the funeral.

"Yeah, it is," Rock admitted with a slow nod of his head. It was the focus on the man that allowed John to see it. There was warm acceptance or a mild connection there.

Rock was smiling, and it was a cruel smile. He focused on it, but he didn't say anything.

"The world, _this world_ , is just full of stuff like this." The Japanese man spoke on. The hesitation in his voice was gone. Not a trace to be heard. "Smuggling, thievery, murder, it's not a place where you can find anyone offering good deeds."

John knew he wasn't wrong, but he still didn't say a word.

"It doesn't matter how nice you are to some people or… whatever you try and do to make them feel better. They'll end up dead, because somebody who wants them dead will kill them." I they hired the right person from the Continental, there was a good chance of that. "And really, it just makes sense. Good will doesn't matter when the world is so evil."

John knew he wasn't wrong. But, if he focused a little more on his own past, he knew he wasn't entirely right. The safe bet, but not the sure one.

"You tend to be right when you assume the worst in people," Rock continued to speak. John could only take it as affirmation that trust was built in some way. "That someone will betray you, that someone will try and kill you, or that a certain someone will fall into bad habits again." John did not know who the certain someone was, but focused on Rock's words instead. "Anything about trying to save people, it's all just a big scam, on yourself." That was an interesting sentiment.

That, and the quip of laughter the Japanese Salaryman let out.

"It's funny, you thinking that I have answers." The smile the man wore was dark, but unimportant. John focused on the words. "When I'm still trying to find them myself. Way out of the city? Yeah, there are a few, but what's the point?"

John held back on his answer. He had already made it clear why he needed to leave. Rock was not a stupid man either. He knew.

"If I help you, I know Balalaika will kill me for it. If I don't help you, then you'll probably kill me to keep others from finding me." In most cases, that would be the smarter option. "The Babayaga, like Revy keeps calling you. The man who can kill the whole of the city if he was determined to."

Maybe he could, John realized, but only if he had the tools and time. He had not the tools and his time was already so nearly out.

"Why should I help you?" Rock finally questioned. "If I'm going to die, maybe it'd be best if I let you die with me."

John did not respond. He settled for staring at the man across the table from him, a bare light above them in a dark room. His gun still off the side, unloaded and with the safety on. He stared at a man who had fallen into this world, and didn't see the point in getting out.

But that was beyond John's focus. What was important was the question, and it was a good question to be asked.

Now was the time to ask questions though, but the right ones. The proper lead up, the good preparation, but enough to get what he needed. He focused on what he knew. What he found was surprising, but possible to work.

He just needed to focus.

"I had a wife," John began carefully, watching Rock as he spoke. The man was focused on his words. Excellent. "A woman that found me when I was working a job in New York. Years ago, before I retired."

He paused, measuring Rock's reaction. There was no shock on his face, as he would suspect if the story was told to Balalaika or Mr. Chang. But there was patience, curiosity, attributes that led to trust.

"She was like you, that she wasn't like me." A reporter that stumbled upon him, killing a man who was trying to kill her. "She followed me, and managed to find me, even after I tried to lose her." Days gone by and she always found him, to a degree he thought killing her would be the safe option. "She was never afraid of me, maybe because she didn't know who I was, and who I am." Even though she had witnessed him kill a man, and calmly walk away.

Helen was beyond his focus during his first mission. But she was the first and only person to ever force him to lose it.

"I began to tell her of what I did, trying to scare her off." It only captivated her, making her ask more questions, and he gave answers, appropriately. "No matter how honest I was, she only ever thanked me for it." The war he had fought in, the bodies he had piled, and friends he had. None of it bothered her.

And it was because of her he began to lose focus. It was difficult to maintain his focus when she was always on his mind.

"I knew the same truth as you. There are no good deeds in this world." John held his focus on Rock as he spoke. Roanapur was removed from the countries that housed Continentals, but the laws were similar. Evil bred evil, and good perished. "I tried to make her leave me because of that." And she refused, calling him a coward, for the first time in his life, for not fighting for something. When she was the focus of his life, John knew there was no other option.

"Because she wouldn't leave the world, I knew that I had to." Rock was focused on him, intently. "It was the only way to save her. It was the only way to keep her who she was." And Helen had stayed true to herself, every day. From the moment they met to the moment she died, she never changed. He was focused on her smile, and he never saw it waver.

"What I did not realize, and perhaps what she did, was that by leaving the world for her, she saved me from it as well." For a time, and only a time. A time that John knew he enjoyed more than any other. When he was happy with Helen, dancing and cheering with her. Having dinners together, moonlight walks, vacations without bloodshed, and everything he thought an impossibility once.

All because she never lost focus on him.

"I want to leave this world again," John brought back the conversation. "I do not want to kill recklessly to do so. I just need a boat to leave this city, and find somewhere else where I can live." To the end of his days, no matter how few remained.

And Rock stared at him. It was possibly the first time he had seen the Asian man truly shocked.

Maybe it was the deep breaths he was taking, maybe it was the sternness in his lips, John couldn't be sure. He was only focused on what mattered.

What mattered was how close Rock was to giving him the answers he needed.

"You're… lying," Rock finally said. John was disappointed, but not surprised. It would have been a betrayal to his focus to have not seen it coming. "Dutch said you left and retired but… he made it clear you were dangerous."

"I am dangerous," John admitted easily. "But that doesn't mean I have to be violent." It was only necessary sometimes, often in the face of those who relished in it.

He stood, slowly, looming over Rock in the singular light of the room. The Japanese man did not flinch at the sight, but he did crane his neck to track him, watching him carefully. He was focused as well.

Good.

"At any moment in the past day, I could have taken a ship without the need to search for one." He knew he could. Dutch had a boat, Yolanda had a boat, and many in the Yellowflag, drunk as they were, were privy to brag of their crafts. Only unable to approach them. "But I did not use violence to gain the boat. I wanted to pay for my way, not fight."

Rock watched him carefully, breathing still. John focused on his eyes. If they looked away, then he wasn't listening. But so far, they had yet to blink.

"All I need are answers to leave, and you have said that you were kept by Dutch to provide answers to him." John felt his throat dry, voice nearly crack. Talking was difficult. "From you, that is all I need."

And it was the sum of what he needed. Nothing more and certainly no less. Less would not let him leave the city of thieves. More would only risk him being followed or found. An abhorrent risk at that.

John leaned down towards Rock, the light blotted out by his mane of hair and body. It showed Rock's face, leaving only the whites of his eyes to be clear in the dark shadow.

He only needed a way out of the city, and focusing on Rock, he knew he was close. There was a way, an idea, something the man had to give him and out. He just needed to know what it was.

"I can show you my honesty," John returned. He had one option to make this work. If there was ever only one option, then it was the best one. "All you need to do is promise you will help me."

John watched, carefully and focused, as Rock took a slow breath to calm his nerves.

And then nodded his head.

* * *

"Get the fuck off of me!" Revy shouted at the man next to the couch, pushing him away what she could. The bastard was _damn_ lucky she didn't have her Cutlasses on her, or he'd be fucking mulch on the wall!

"Not until I tie the sutures!" The bitch shouted back. Amazing how big the balls on some guys got when they weren't staring down the barrel of her guns. "Your boss told me he'd refuse to offer further services if I didn't do this right." Revy didn't give a fuck what Dutch thought.

She didn't give a single solitary shit what _any_ asshole in the whole of Roanapur thought. If mother-fucking _Balalaika_ or father-sucking _Mr. Chang_ , walked in here right now, she wasn't sure she'd do anything less than cuss their heads off.

"Then tell the big black bastard that I don't need fucking thread in my skin!" She tried to kick her leg again, for probably the hundredth time since she got her.

 _CLANK_ It only rattled the loose belt tied to the table.

The rattling that shook the towels underneath her, four layers deep and stained red with the blood the hack had drawn out of her for the wound cleaning. No fucking point in that when the bitch _John Wick_ had shot a through-and-through bullet.

"And get the that _fucking_ strap of _piss-poor_ leather off of me!" She roared again, stopping only when she felt the needle pierce her skin. "The fucking _whore houses_ have got better quality shit than that!"

"Those whore houses have more customers than me as well!" the man quipped back, one hand on her knee as it worked on her outer thigh. The fucker had _no_ idea how lucky he was not to be dead on the ground right now. "And I'm only gonna keep the few buyers I have if I do good work. So if you want to walk on this leg again, let me patch you up!"

Revy pulled in a gulp of air, ready to blow the man's eardrums out if her guns weren't nearby.

"Let the man work Revy." Only to have the words sucked out by her boss walking into the room.

She looked at him, scowling from her prone position on the couch. One leg _chained_ , her arms gripping the cushions of the rickety sofa, and the only thing that wasn't chained up good for nothing except hurling insults at the lazy fucks in the room.

"Who the fuck says you, boss?!" Revy roared back at the taller man. He only sighed from behind his shades, leaning on a wall in the office and watching the quack work on her leg. Fuck, it felt like she was getting a new tat. "Why are we sitting on our asses while a literal fucking demon is out there holding Rock?!"

"Because neither of us is any good to find him right now," Dutch returned easily. The bastard, so fucking calm that he dragged out and incinerated a cigarette before he continued. He was _going_ to share those! "Last I checked, John stormed a warehouse owned by the Hotel, took out no less than two dozen of their men, you included, and got out of there almost scot free."

Revy growled at him, hoping she'd crack a tooth so the doctor would have to put a hand in her mouth. At least if that happened, she'd get to taste _someone's_ blood.

"Sides, this ain't exactly a new situation for Rock. You of all people know that." Damn the Buddha in the bay if she didn't. But this was _totally_ different. "John may not be the kindest guy you'd ever meet, as dangerous as a war between the Hotel and the Triads, but he's never been kind on killing needlessly. Rock's good for now. You ain't." Fuck that logic!

"Rock's only good till that _bastard_ says he ain't!" She shot back. She fucking _needed_ her guns right now, so she could actually _shoot_! Devil damn the Lagoon Company rules! If they were dancing with demons, she'd shoot wherever the fuck she wanted! "And if _this_ bastard spends another fucking minute working on my leg, I'll start charging him!"

Her finger pointed at the back-alley doctor, hearing him snort even as he dug the needle deep into her leg again. The fucker was lucky she was too roided up on rage to feel it. Fucker was even luckier that she didn't have her guns on her.

"If you wanna calm me down so much, _boss_ , why don't ya tell me the logic in having us back here, _huh?!_ " She snarled at Dutch, even as the smoke of his cigarette wafted in front of his voice. "That fucker John swooped in like a fucking bat out of hell, picked up Rock like a meal, then took off before anything could even touch the fucker."

"That's the fifth time ya recapped it Revy," Dutch returned like he didn't give a fuck. _Big Mistake_. He should've been treating this like his life was on the line.

Because with Rock gone, it might as well have been.

"And I'm gonna keep saying it until someone tells me where that bastard is and when I get to skull fuck his brain out!" She ripped her hands up, finally tearing through the couch and letting cotton fly out. At least Dutch had the mind to look at that.

Great, the black fucker had more care for the furniture than the Jap that helped them rake in twice the profit. Fucking brilliant logic!

"Revy, if you think I'm standin' over here just enjoyin' the view, then I'm gonna ask the doc to check your head next." Dutch pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, even as Revy growled at him. She felt the doc working over her wound still. "Truth is, I'm tryin' to stay calm and think of what to do. Any boss worth their salt knows that machining business decisions in the heat of the moment is always a bad choice. Leads to bad blood and poor sales."

"The only blood I give a fuck about is Rock's!" Revy yelled back, pounding at the now exposed backboard of the sofa. "That _fucker_ John was able to tear through the Hotel goons like paper, so imagining him doing anything less than _pulverizing_ Rock for info ain't in me!"

Revy snarled at Dutch, wishing like a fucking first day merc that she'd get the kill shot on the fucker just for glancing at him. Even through the thick of his stupid shades and smoke-screen, Revy knew her _boss_ was glaring back at her. She fucked the little care she had left with a steel ram rod.

All that was left was her sitting on a torn-up couch, bloody and shot, and arguing with her boss about saving one of their crew.

"Done, _finally_!" the doc beside her spoke as he stood. Thank fucking god for that! "Wounds cleaned and stitched, but it's gonna hurt like hell for the next few days. Longer if you don't let it rest."

"You mean sit on my ass and do nothing while _John Fucking Wick_ is out there with Rock?!" She shouted at the quack. Fucker was too far away to grab.

"Yeah, that's what I figured you'd say. Have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to _not_ think you'd do that." Was the little bitch of a man mocking her? He'd better fucking pray to the Buddha in the bay she never saw him again, or she'd give him plenty of holes to practice with!

"Can she walk on it?" Dutch asked from the wall. She snarled at his question. "Or am I gonna have to keep you on call when she does something against orders?" Least he wasn't dumb enough to think she'd let Rock rot away!

"Hard to tell right now, only can say that she was lucky with where this John Wick shot her." Lucky as a fucking four-leaf clover right up St. Patty's asshole. That kind of luck. "No bone injury, missed tendons, and only heavy trauma to the muscular network. Not familiar with guns myself, but I'd have to guess the round was low enough caliber to keep the damage from being catastrophic."

"Look at the back-alley whore using big words," Revy returned, the bitch still luckier than John himself she hadn't shot him. "Just spell it out already, 'fore I pay you a visit after I get Rock back." And there was no maybe there to be had.

"Fine, if all you do is walk around, should be okay." The man spoke even as he put away the multiple tools he had worked on her with. Bag was as bloody as John's face was gonna be, that was for sure. "Jump off of that leg or swing it too hard, and you'll rupture the sutures, causing another hemorrhage."

"This ain't the first time I've gotten shot, jackass," Revy cursed the man from her absolutely prone position. She fucking _dared_ the guy to take advantage of her right now. "Just chuck me the pills and get the fuck out." She thumbed the door.

"Always a pleasure with you guys, really it is," the ball-alley bitch mumbled as he went right back into the bloody bag. Revy heard the shaking of the pill bottle before it flew into the air, landing in her palm. She popped three of the magic meds without a moment's hesitation.

Faster they went in, the faster she'd be able to get up and fuck John Wick up his pasty old ass.

"Now are you going to pay me, or is this gonna be another tab charge?" The fucker was lucky he was leaving unscathed after the way Revy was treated. She was ready to bark it right at him.

"I've got that," but of course the local jew took care of it. Revy glowered at Benny, walking up and laying down a few hundred pills for the man. Rip-off church had nothing on this asshole. "Thanks again for the help."

"Yeah, sure," the man returned. "Just make sure next time it's now when there's a city wide man-hunt, kay? Last thing I need is getting shot up in Roanapur by the Hotel or Triads." Dumb fuck, who the hell could afford that?

She scoffed as she heard him leave, door slamming behind him. She really wanted to pepper his feet with some bullets, but the lack of a gun made that damn difficult.

"Great, he's gone, can ya unhook me now?" Revy spoke, rattling the leather chain her leg was still matched to. "I quit the BDSM scene when ya hired me, Dutch."

"Till I know your not gonna go chargin' out there for John, no that stays." The fucking bastard. "I'll risk getting shot later if it keeps you getting shot now. In case ya missed it Revy, I've already lost one employee to this shit show and I'm not risking a second." Mother fucker thought she was in danger. Bullshit.

"Don't I make the cut, boss?" Benny teased back. That Hawaiian shirted geek was damn lucky he was out of arm's reach. Otherwise she'd 'rewire' his organs into a literal fucking shit show.

"You're the only one I trust to not go off on a suicidal run, Ben," Dutch wired back. Great, maybe they'd fuck now.

Revy slammed her head back into the sofa, letting the little of the padding she hadn't torn up notch up her head. What a fucking joke this all was. Funny as hell. More fun than pot-shooting a bunch of fucking amateurs from Africa. Least they could shoot back.

Fuck, at least then she could shoot at all!

"If you're straight enough to talk now Revy, let me fill ya in." Revy ignored her boss, looking for something to hoist herself up with. _Shit_ it hurt. Being shot fucking _never_ felt good and there was no fucking getting used to it. Why couldn't that fucking has-been killed have shot her in the gut or something. At least then she could stand! "Benny and I checked this place when we got back, making sure Balalaika and Mr. Chang didn't bug the place while we were gone." The fuck?

Revy looked at Dutch with a screwed expression. Since when the fuck were they ever concerned about something like that? They were like the best smugglers for both of them!

"Case you're thinking the same way Benny is, I checked cause of John Wick." Almost a good enough answer for her. _Almost_. "Point is John Wick is like a lost crate of dynamite in a mine. Normally wouldn't give two fucks about taking a flare or torch into one of those places if you need to see where your goin'. But the idea of having it all blow up in your face with a wrong twist of the stick? That makes even the bosses paranoid."

Dutch dragged in a breath through the cigarette, letting it out in a long puff of smoke. Fuck she needed that. Revy held out her hand, fingers making a 'V' shape. Least the bastard could do while she was lain up like a crippled bitch was give her a fix.

The bastard still knew her well enough to give into that demand at least, burning at the tip.

"It's like the original war with the Triads and Hotel, back 'fore I started up this place." Great, a fucking history lesson. Those always stuck. She nearly _ate_ her cigarette in aggravation. "Back then, the Hotel had listening mics set up in damn near every shop corner they could walk on. Triads countered with more cameras down the street than a high-class bank." What a sight that would have been, not that it fucking mattered.

"The only thing keeping me from screaming you down again Dutch is the cigarette in my mouth and knowing that, if you're half as smart as Rock, you'll get to the important bit soon." She ignored _his_ look now, scowl and all.

Turn about was fair fucking play when your partner was being hung up by probably the deadliest killer ever to bloody the fucking streets.

Short of herself.

"Point is, Revy," Dutch began, aiming at her with the butt of his cig. "Is that John Wick being in town has put the gangs back on such high alert, there ain't even a pick-pocket on the streets right now. They're all too damn afraid they'll gunned down just for looking like John. I'd bet every dollar in the safe that they're aiming to nab that bounty of his and restart the war entirely."

Oh great, John Wick was a colossal hazard to the city no matter what the fuck he did. At least that made killing him a public service now. Made Big Sis and Mr. Chang would give her a fucking gold medal for the effort.

"Considering the tech that usually comes with heavy ops in the hotel, I'm not surprised either," Benny added on. Of course he did. Always did when there was something wore to say. Revy dragged her cigarette, already almost down to the nub. "Rock would probably be the first to point out that Balalaika hates missing out on a man hunt."

Ain't that the fucking truth.

"Mr. Chang is looking for him now, too," Dutch noted as he stared out the window. Revy was pissed about that. She got her boss was cool in tough spots, but this was freaking concrete in steel tough. "Apparently a stray bullet knocked through a warehouse of his, ruined a car he had stored there." She pulled her lips at the thought of it.

"Ouch," Benny spoke for her. "Don't suppose you got numbers on that? Like, are we talking five figures, six?" For a car that Mr. Chang had smuggled in, it was an easy six. Those kinds of cars sold easily to the bigger players in Vietnam, even if they just sat in expensive warehouses for dealers to ogle at.

"Low seven, actually." Benny whistled at the number. Revy was just thankful it was John who fucked up. "Probably can patch it, but it wouldn't do any good for the moral of his men to hear he'd forgive that kind of stuff."

"So John's got the Triads and the Hotel after him now," Revy concluded the obvious. "Talk about being fucked in two directions." She preferred to call it three, because there was no way she was letting Big Sis or Mr. Chang put a bullet in the guy before her.

After what he had done to Rock, or was doing to him, John Wick was hers.

"Probably, but just cause the big guns are comin' down on him doesn't mean Wick's out of the game yet." Dutch pushed off the wall as he spoke, rounding the couch as he did so. He double tapped her shoulder, showing off a newly lit cig as he did so.

Revy snorted. Guess her boss did know how to keep her calm. Hope he had a dozen packs ready to keep her from running out of the sofa. That, and a better lock on the leather belt

"Can't forget that John Wick is the deadliest mother fucker to ever damn the Earth." Revy hated these talks now. The living legend now just a fucking pain in the ass. "Don't forget that he's the same devil that walked through more wars and gun fights than Balalaika and Chang combined. And neither of those two are dumb enough to forget it."

"So it's, what, a cold war?" Benny asked. That fucking thing from the 70's? "First shot sparks the end?"

"Damn close to it. Least it feels that way," Dutch affirmed. Even _fucking_ better. No wonder he took her guns away. Last thing the big man needed was the Lagoon company getting blamed for shooting off that shit storm.

But if it nabbed the Babayaga for it, Revy was sure as a Makarov round it'd be worth it.

"Only upside is situations like this don't last, least not when your dealin' with rival gangs against one dude." Didn't take Rock to figure that one out. "Soon as he's dead or gone, things 'ill either calm down or just spill off to wherever the fucking John ends up."

"And we're stuck playin' house until that's done?" Revy sneered at Dutch with the question. The fucker had the nerve to click his tongue at that. "Are you fucking kidding me Dutch?! That _bitch_ kidnapped Rock! If the Hotel or Triads find the fucker, they're not gonna give a shit who's in the room with him!"

"She's got a point boss," Benny agreed with her. Thank whatever God wasn't pissing himself try for that. "Mr. Chang might consider holding off, but the Russians… They're not exactly what we've seen to be well-adjusted in a gun-fight."

"Not sayin' either of you are wrong," Dutch added. The but was about as obvious as the butt of her guns when she was pistol whipping some dumb bastard. "Problem is I can't see a solution that doesn't put the company at risk. More than it is at least. Any good businessman knows that sometimes you have to step back from a deal and let it cool."

Only a lazy fucker let a situation cool down before charging in! The real winners where the ones who went from the pan to the fucking fire and bathed in that shit!

"And right now, this thing is hot enough to burn the city down. Even worse that it's the mother fucking Babayaga their after." No shit, she knew now. And he'd know how badly he fucked up when he saw her again. "So, it ain't gonna be as easy as luring him out and taking a quick shot from ten blocks down. John's too smart for that."

"He better be smarter than a couple of fucking porn-star brats," Revy grumbled. Damn her leg itched. She really wanted to ram it down John's throat. Preferably till it shattered his tough-as-steel spine. "Kinda pathetic those were the last guys to give the Hotel a run for their money."

And fuck, _they_ did it without putting Rock's life on the line at least. Couldn't the legendary Babayaga do the same, or did he always need to grab some ace ticket before heading off to do his thing? Shit, what was even the point!?

"Rather they don't have a pissing contest about who can piss off the Hotel the most," Benny added on. "Considering how we almost got onto the Hotel's red list for that. _Raaaather_ not have that happen again." Of that, Revy could agree, somewhat.

If it meant killing John Wick, it'd be worth it. Probably, at least it felt like it would now, and that was what mattered. Because if he died now, at least John had a better chance of walking through the door.

Sides, there were no guards from the Hotel out there now. Apparently, the protection from John Wick ended when it was clear it mattered about as much as paper against a bullet. Not that Revy cared too much. Dutch was the one making a bigger deal out of it.

Least, any guards they could see. No doubt there were probably two or three of those snipers nested around their block. Big Sis was a lot of things but dumb was so far off the list it was in fucking orbit.

Maybe he was worried that the fucking Babayaga was gunning for old friends now, but she _really_ didn't care. Him coming for them was probably one of the better situations for her now.

No easier way to get a hold of the bastard then him walking through the front door again. No easier shoot someone than when they were knocking on the door. But that wasn't gonna happen. That chance passed by earlier today and it wasn't about to come back to them.

Rock loved to talk about how hindsight was 20-20. Revy would have let her leg get Gangrene and fall right the fuck off it meant she could have 20-20 _fore_ sight. Then all this shitstorms would hit the crapper before they ever got near her.

"Stay calm, Revy," Dutch said, for like the fiftieth fucking time. She wasn't some whore being told to cum, dammit. "It's like you said. Rock's been down this rabbit hole before, probably will again. He's got a good head on his shoulders and he'll know what to do to keep himself alive."

"He _fucking_ better," Revy mouthed more to herself than anyone else. She held up her hand, 'V'ing for another lit cig. "It just fucking figures that he gets kidnapped by everyone from piss-stained school girls to literal _ass-raping_ demons." She pulled her hand down when she felt a cancer stick slide into them.

"Can't contribute much to this, but how sure are we that John even _wants_ to hurt Rock?" Benny asked. Bastard was lucky Dutch was keeping her chained to the desk, or she'd strangle him with his fucking radio wires. "I mean, Rock's a smart guy, but why would John Wick want him? He doesn't strike me as the kind of guy to do this without a reason. And, vicious as Rock's been getting lately, don't really see him as the kind of guy the Babayaga would see as a threat."

"That's cause he doesn't," Dutch added on. His boots stomped as he walked along the room. "John's gotta be looking for info right now, and Rock's got that in spades around Roanapur. Shit, probably picked him up just so he could get the mental download on Mr. Chang and Balalaika."

Yeah, _that_ Revy could believe. If there was anyone who was becoming the fucking psychotherapist of Roanapur, it her bullet. Bastard knew right were to plant himself to fuck up people in the worst of ways.

It was why if anything happened to him, she'd fuck up whoever did it tenfold.

"It ain't gonna be an easy night, but we're gonna have to call it in for now," Dutch went on, because of course he would ask them to shut up and take this. "Anything we do without the permission of the Triads or Hotel is just gonna fan the flames till we got the town burning down. Best change we have is waiting for them to call us in for help. And, seein' as its our star employee who's being held up, I'm bettin' that someone's gonna give us a ring soon."

"Fucking really?" Revy asked back. "You think Big Sis is gonna invite us to crash that kind of party? Ya got a better chance of that Yolanda bitch forkin' over the skimmed profits than that happening." She wasn't even exaggerating.

If there was one thing _everyone_ knew about Big Sis, it was how much she loved to hunt. And god damn if John Wick wasn't the perfect fucking target.

"Maybe," Dutch admitted. "Still, only real chance we got or-"

 _Knock-Knock_

 _Click_

Revy's eyes spun to the door, same time that Dutch pulled out his pistol and took aim. Her teeth gnashed the cigarette in her mouth, fingers itching for her own Cutlasses, pissed off more than much else that she didn't have them.

"Here." Until Benny shoved them into her hands. One leg chained to the table, she gave the wiry dude a side-ways smirk.

"Good bitch," she mouthed out, hardly more than a whisper. _Click-Click_ Before cocking her pistols at the door. "Would ya mind answering for us? Kinda tired up here."

He nodded at her, looking up to get the same affirmative nod from Dutch. The pair of gunman kept their rounds on the door, ready to blow away the first bad eye flake of skin they saw. No chances in a town ready to blow.

Benny stood just in front of the door, hand hovering over the knob. He didn't ask who was there, didn't wait for another knock. He twisted, slowly, and opened the door.

Revy almost fired at the sight.

"Holy shit! Rock!"

Revy screamed, even as her boss grabbed her partner and pulled him into the room. The table she was chained to groaned as she twisted against it, ready to tear the fucking thing apart with her bare hands to get to her partner.

Their guns clattered as her partner, her ace, was pulled into the Lagoon office. Looked like a freaking doll the way Dutch ripped him into the building, and much as it was deserved.

"Rock! Start talking! Say something!" Revy shouted at the Jap, basically being dragged more than guided into the office. She rattled the leather chain on her leg, ignoring the flare of pain from her thigh. _Fuck it_. If Rock was about to pass out, she wasn't gonna watch like a sack of meat. "C'mon, partner, don't go ignoring me after I took a fucking bullet for your pale ass!"

Revy knew she looked like shit right now, but Rock looked like he was a dead man walking. She'd seen enough of them to know.

That stupid button up shirt he always wore looked like it had taken a ten-foot dive in the bay, his face was covered in dust, ash, and the fucking Buddha knows what else, and that wasn't even touching on the fact that he looked like he was beating the Doom's Day clock to midnight.

"I'm here, I'm alright," the _bastard_ had the nerve to say, even while he was swaying no his feet.

"Like an anaconda up my ass you are," Revy sniped back. She couldn't put her heart into it right now. Maybe _after_ she figured out how the fuck thin-as-twigs Rock got away from the fucker who put her down, but not right now.

She couldn't fire the gun till she knew the bullets were alright.

"The fucked happened Rock? What part of the devil's asshole did you crawl out of?" She asked even as Benny guided the Jap to a seat in the room, the newbie looking ready to conk himself out. He'd get a bullet in the leg if he tried. "You look like the shit that would do just that."

"She ain't wrong, but it's a damn good question," Dutch joined in from behind her. "Never mind just how ya got away, how the hell did you get your sorry ass back here?" Leave it to the boss to ask the next best question.

If it was hell to cross the street during a fire-fight, Revy knew it must have been like tripping through hell getting back to their place while the Big guys were on high alert. Yet here was the Jap with nothing but plans, the only thinking looking shot being his nerves.

It wouldn't be the only thing unless he started talking soon.

"You guys, is that really okay?" Benny, of all the fuckers in the room, had to ask first. He was _not_ who Revy wanted to hear from. "Rock just came out of the devil's grasp, if Babayaga is a good term for John, so shouldn't we give him a few minutes at least? Get his nerves in check?"

"No." Revy would have shouted it if Rock hadn't said it first.

She looked at partner, doing is _fucking best_ to look like a two-bit whore after an amateur ass-fucking session. All he had done so far was say that one word and collapse in a chair.

"No, I… I got a lot to say." Well great, _THAT_ always boded well. Good thing she already had a cig handy. The Jap could use one himself though. So no surprise when Dutch was already on the up and up, handing over a lit cancer stick to Rock. He took it, dragging it like it was his first time.

Must have been a night of firsts.

"Take your time, Rock," Dutch instructed him. "Gotta talk, that's for sure, but don't need you collapsing from stress getting it all out at once. Sides, if you made it here, you're safe then." Revy held back a scoff.

Rock might be safe, but any dense mother fucker who tried coming into the room now would get enough lead in them to replace a bone.

"Right… yeah," Rock spoke between puffs of the cigar, smoke billowing out on his exhales. Fucker was already almost through his first one. Guess Revy could let that go, as John Wick wasn't exactly his usual kidnapper. Not after school girls in Japan anyways.

"If you need somewhere to start, tell us where ya came from." Dutch spoke up. "You might not know Roanapur like the back of your hand yet, but I'm willin' to bet me and Revy can piece together where you got out of." Oh yeah, that was why he wanted to know.

If Dutch handed _that_ kind of information off to Mr. Chang and Big Sis, he'd be in good for the rest of his life. Course, it meant the next month of the search-and-destroy for the Babayaga would be a whole new pit in hell.

"I will, I can," Rock started again. Least he was getting his breath back. "But first, I… I have to give you something." Revy felt her hand grip her Cutlass. That was _always_ a bad thing to say. Bar fucking nothing.

"Rock," she started, seething through her lips. "The fuck are you talking about?" Revy could have been skull-fucked blind and she still would have seen the look of caution across Benny and Dutch's face. Rock either didn't care or just wanted to get it over with.

She watched him reach into his drenched shirt, pulling at a pocket she _really_ didn't know he had. He grabbed something though, and pulled it out like a coin chip at the Vegas Strip. Revy had absolutely no fucking idea what it was.

The coin wasn't far off, though maybe about pint-size in comparison. The puck Rock was holding was silver as a rare-bullet jacket and carved out like some Cartel muff piece. Skull stamped on the front of it and looking like it could powder someone's nose if they needed it. It just had Revy twisting her eyes in confusion.

But it had Dutch dropping his cigarette from his mouth. The fuck?

"The fuck is that thing?" Revy asked again, her gun waving at the puck. "Some goth baby's table coaster?" It was just the right size for a brew. To bad they didn't have the drink to use it with.

"Rock," Dutch spoke up now. "The fuck did you do?" Great, at least their boss knew. Revy just knew she wasn't going to like it now.

"Made a deal with the devil." Right in one.

 _SMACK!_

Revy didn't wince as she watched Dutch pound a solid hid across Rock's face. Sent the idiot tumbling to the ground like a thrown rag, drenched and all. And really, right now, she couldn't even care. All she could do was scowl at him as he tried to catch his breath again.

She was ready to go screw herself to save the fucker, and he was out making deals with his kidnappers? When the fuck did that _ever_ work out?!

"You dumb slow piece of shit," Dutch spoke _everything_ Revy was thinking, just cleaner for the kids. "Do you have any fucking idea what that is?" Revy didn't, but she already knew she hated it.

"A marker," Rock spoke from the floor, rolling over like a kicked dog. He was a dog about to put the fuck down if he didn't wise the fuck up! "A blood agreement between two parties… creating an unbreakable and non-negotiable deal between the two."

For fuck's sake.

"Are you shitting me, Rock?!" Revy shouted from her chained position on the couch. Fuck, and she had actually worried about this guy? "Where the shit did all of your common sense and smarts go? Did John fuck them out of you before he handed that as payment?! Did you lick his sack before he handed it off?!"

"He gave it to me… after I gave him his answers," Rock kept speaking. Revy was _seriously_ debating shooting him now. Payment for the bullet _she_ had taken! "Questions that he didn't know, and a way to help him out of the city."

"Rock you stupid slow…" Dutch held back his voice, pinching his noise. Just showed the boss had a hell of a lot more self-control than Revy did. If she could walk, she'd be kicking Rock while he was down and until he was dead! "Do you seriously think this is gonna end as soon as Wick leaves the city? You seriously expect Balalaika or Mr. Chang to just let him go after the shit he riled up?"

"No." Well good, he was a complete retard. "That's why I told him how to make a trade." Okay, what the shit now?

"A trade?" Revy snorted. "Rock, _you_ were the mother-fucker who pointed out that Big Sis gets blood when she wants it. Cash is a far off second to a good fire-fight to her." Hell, it was the worst kept secret in Roanapur.

"It will work," Rock repeated. Scratch that, he was retarded. "Because he's not trading Balalaika money. Money, goods, or even his services. She doesn't want those." He was like a fucking ping-pong ball being slapped between two dicks right now.

"Don't make me knock your teeth out," Dutch rumbled from above the Jap. Her _partner_ still hadn't gotten off the floor. "The fuck did you give John? What unholy deal did you make the worst killer in all of Roanapur?"

Rock didn't answer right away. Probably trying to think of a fresh way out of the hole he had dug himself. Too bad Revy was ready to bury him and pour lead down the top. Guess he really was just too green for the city.

"I told him everything about the Columbian Cartel safe house. All the way down to who their bosses were."

The fuck?

"Rock, how the fuck does that matter?" Dutch asked the damn good question. "Why the fuck does it matter? Why would, or even shout, John give a shit about them?" Rock just kept grinning. She'd miss that grin when he was dead.

"Because he's going to tear them down, so that Balalaika can pick up their pieces." Clean up? Seriously? How the fuck was… wait.

"You're not saying she's going to pick up the mess from the city," Revy started, realizing what Rock meant. "You're talking about… taking over their ops?"

Rock's grin was louder than the discharge of her guns.

"Everything," Rock confirmed. "Shipments, drug channels, buyers, growers, and everything in between." He looked at the ceiling like god himself was pissing on him. "Balalaika loves a hunt, but if she has the opportunity, she loves nothing more than performing a hostile takeover of a new market."

And he had all the proof of that in Japan. Fuck, he really did. She screwed the pooch on an easy deal for the Hotel just for the chance to take the whole thing, and blow apart a couple hundred of the Yakuza Japs in the process.

Shit, Big Sis thought of it as a war, and she loved wars like Eda loved cock. If she had the means to win, she'd go in on it like it was the last great fight of her life.

John Wick was the cream of the top crop, but a whole _fucking operation?_ No one man could compare.

"And you told John all this," Benny repeated. "So he could T it up for Balalaika to hit." What a fucking guy. He could keep that grin all day long if he wanted. He earned it now.

"He wanted to know how to leave Roanapur without being chased." Rock spoke like he was clear as the ocean. "Told him the truth of how impossible it was. Then he wanted to know what he could do to make it possible. That's when the idea started getting made."

"You are one crazy son-of-a-bitch Rock, you know that?" Dutch asked. Rock had better know that by now, or Revy was gonna make it her personal job over the next few months just drilling it home into that big ass skull of his. Least he had the balls to match now. "For all of that, John had better have given you something good in return." His finger pointed at the silver puck in Rock's hand.

"I did," Rock started. "But I didn't." Fucking seriously?

"Rock, you just got me back in a good mood with that plan of yours," Revy started, eyeing her partner on the ground. "Don't fuck it up by acting coy."

"His deal wasn't with me, it was with _us_." Rock had that grin on his face. Revy didn't know if she wanted shoot it off or join in on it. "Best part of the deal was, he left his side of the deal blank."

"Say what?" Benny spoke up. Revy had a similar thought, though not nearly as clean.

Rock didn't answer, not at first. He just held up the Marker to Dutch, fully extended for the Boss to grab it, if he even dared to touch it. It did look like a fucking black mark of the sea right now. Acted like it, too.

"In exchange for everything I told him, and a few requirements, John Wick, the Babayaga, is bound to do one unconditional act for the Lagoon Company at any time in the future up to his untimely demise."

Revy dropped the cig from her mouth.

"Oh fuck," she mouthed more than she spoke, eyes staring at the silver puck in Rock's hands. It wasn't a black mark now. That was the mother fucking hand of King gold-bags Midas.

 _That_ was an instant get out of jail free card. For anywhere.

"Rock," Dutch spoke up again. "How the fuck did you manage to get that out of John?" Pretty clear he wasn't angry any more, least not as much as he was just flat out impressed. Revy could relate.

"Because," her partner began. "I'm good at my job."

Revy's grin nearly broke her face. God _damn_ her partner was crazy.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

Well, we're on the home stretch now.

I'd say two more chapters plus an epilogue, short and sweet kind, and this is done.

I _COULD_ have made this into a long epic about John joining a cartel and running with it, but that wouldn't have made sense. I _COULD_ have made this into a John Wick creating a new Continental story, like it originally was, but I thought against it.

The truth is, I just want this story to feel like a reasonable chapter between John Wick 2 and 3 (when it comes).

Show off John Wick amongst a 'foreign' world of killers, see how he adapts and gets out, then everyone moves on.

Such is the life in Roanapur.


	9. Membership Revoked

John watched the Cartel from the scope of the rifle, silent and hidden from the few pedestrians below. He only focused on remaining hidden from them. They weren't what he had to observe.

He was memorizing the compound at the far end of the street, a gate that was raised towards the main entrance, flanked both within and without by a pair of moderately armed guards, wearing off-market and non-marked bullet proof vests. Low-grade from simple observation, likely purchased for visual intimidation more than tactical reasoning. Roanapur was not a city of intelligent thieves, but wary pickpockets and low-priced killers.

It was evident from the traffic within the building, little that he could see through the grating and low-tinted windows, that the main offices and rooms for meetings were held in a wing of the building, non-centralized and likely out of sight from the windows of the building. A little focus on the people inside made it clear. Too many moving too quickly from the left to right, never disappearing for long between the pairs of windows he could see. No central hall or room they entered and stayed within.

More focus gave the clear agreement with the layout. Hiding the high intelligence or value areas from view and sight, making it a higher risk for foreign parties to enter, making it easier to defend, and making it simpler to kill anyone entering to extract the data. Any breach had to have an exit, and if the Cartel had buried their valuable data in a place without windows or clear exits, it would be easy to corner and kill them.

But that worked off the assumption of a raid.

A raid was what Rock of the Lagoon company also assumed. It was clear from the words he had spoken and few pieces of information he had written down that he assumed it. He was of the belief that John would cause enough damage for Balalaika to enter and take what was necessary, to risk her men for the available slab of meet.

John had focused more on the woman in the past than the new information broker of Roanapur. He knew it was not the case for most dangerous woman of the Russian Mafia.

So long as she believed the Babayaga was in play, she would risk her men fighting him than a piece of territory she could not guarantee. He was a fight, a war, and a more tantalizing risk to pursue than the Cartel who had festered beneath her for so long. If the risk was the same between them, which it was not, Balalaika would surely pick him.

He could give her the war and fight she craved.

John took his eyes off the scope, shutting them to heighten his focus. Focusing on what had to be done, now that he had more information on the what and where. He needed the how.

It was because of the knowledge of Balalaika, established patterns of the Cartel, and information from Rock that John knew a raid was out of the question. Even a successful one would not guarantee his way out of the city.

He didn't need a raid, he needed a takedown. A takedown was not a raid.

That was a mistake too many made. A raid involved searching for a singular object, a person, and either extracting, destroying, or changing the item. A raid involved causing the least amount of damage to reach the objective as quickly as possible. A takedown was not a raid, because a takedown required that the facility be completely inoperable, if not destroyed.

No, a takedown was not a raid. The areas of focus were all too different. That was what made it so difficult.

So many areas he had to focus on. Focus on not only the objective he needed to reach, the armaments he needed, but also the number of rooms to clear, the areas of exit he had to choke, the resistance that would grow the longer the takedown proceeded for, any areas of reinforcements that could make his own exit more difficult, so much to think of. So much to focus on.

He disliked takedowns. Everyone in the continental did. Winston once commented that a takedown was an impossible task, outside of having a large sponsor, team, or being in a city that had little resistance.

But John had none of those things. He had no support, no team, and Roanapur was a lawless city with resistance to all things that led to law and order. Thus, it was an impossible task. It was an impossible task, but he could do it.

When he focused on what he needed, he had done the impossible before. He only had to do it again.

He needed to find armaments, perhaps make a deal or call on a favor of the few members of the lawless city who still looked to fulfill old deeds. The few guns that he had were of sufficient make and quality to ensure short gun fights, but a takedown of a Cartel safehouse was no such thing. Even the warehouse, modified and bunkered by Balalaika and the Hotel, didn't compare.

The Cartel home was layered with brick, mortar, and likely sheets of metal to ensure the use of hand-held explosives and low-grade munitions would be a non-issue. The bolted frames of the window, layered with rebar, was a clear indication than entering from any location but a doorway would require sufficient firepower that he didn't have.

John opened his eyes as he stared a head. A car was approaching the building, the third one of the day and unmarked like the two before it. It was a white Civic, a year John didn't recognize, possibly modified to avoid that very thing. Too small to be carrying anything of great importance, too unguarded as well. Likely involved the rotation for the guards then, internal primarily.

It made sense as well. Focus degraded with time, and time spent in constant focus made one easing to distract. The Cartel clearly knew this, knew it enough to keep their guards consistently changing. That meant John could not rely on an assault in the twilight hours to catch them off guard. They would be prepared.

The same could be said for their gun models. Lightly modified automatic models by appearance, but too far away to tell with any great detail the specific make or model. It would have to be a guess they were designed for close-range assaults with any large range weaponry situated inside. That made sense, removing from the front line of fire.

But that was not in his focus at the moment. He needed to focus on what he needed, not what the enemy had. He needed to focus on what was independent of their supplies.

Armaments was the primary thing he needed. Enough to be able to enter the building without fear of running out of ammunition, then procuring the rest of his weaponry from the fallen guards. It would be crude, but so long as he was focused, effective. Reduce the need to carry heavy packs of ammunition as well, making movement easier.

That still required enough to be able to remove no less than eight cards, likely twelve. The Cartel would be hiding more of their men form sight. A bit of focus on the tactics of safe house enforcement made that clear. Hiding the strong points of a defense by appearing vulnerable. A trap for attackers. Average attackers, which John was not.

He needed his weapons though. Thankfully, he knew of one person who would accept a favor in the future. If he focused for a moment, he could see how the conversation would play out with them.

Yolanda was consistent if nothing else. It made the conversation easy to focus on.

* * *

 _"My my John. I didn't think I'd be seeing you again_ this _soon," Yolanda would remark with a slight grin beneath her habit. A merchant's smile, one that she wore better than Dutch, Balalaika or Mr. Chang. The one she wore when she serviced them all. "And from what I have heard, things could have gone better for your reunion with old friends. I would even guess that I am the only one of them to offer you a conversation over threats." She would not be wrong._

 _Although the conversation would not be what he needed to discuss, Yolanda was not one to talk business before pleasure. He needed her help, so he focused on what was necessary to be said._

 _"Only you and Watsup have done nothing to me." His remark would be accurate. Yolanda would not be pleased with so little, however, not when she was used to entertaining Balalaika and Mr. Chang for hours. "I suspect Dutch told Balalaika of me being here, and I was the one who did harm to the Mafia in New York."_

 _"So I've heard, so I've heard," the faux nun would address. Her information was always small, but quick, especially when it was of power changes. "And what a tragedy it is to have the once great and feared Babayaga suddenly looking in the darkest corners for aid, rather than hunting in them for profit." Her silver tongue would be sharp. He would have to be no different._

 _"I'm used to dark places." John would have to focus on areas he'd been in that were bloody and dark. Bloody battles made for intimidating conversations, or just reminders. "At night in Afghanistan when hunting for insurgents, a night club looking for the killer of my dog, underneath the Italian sewer system after killing a family head, and the New York homeless barricade while removing another family. I do well in dark places." Yolanda would be impressed, not scared._

 _"I've heard a little about that, too." She would remark, maybe point a finger at him, grinning all the same. That wasn't what was important. He had to focus on what she'd say next. "And I assume you are here again looking for aid in those areas, correct? Not revenge, maybe, but defiantly something to help you survive. Am I wrong?"_

 _"You are not." When Yolanda moved to business, he had to do the same. Time was already short. "And I recognize that you would not tell either side of where I am, because that would be choosing a side." Yolanda stood as the neutral ground of Roanapur for her naturalness. Equal gain on both sides. Neither would risk upsetting that balance._

 _"As true now as it was decades ago," Yolanda would say next. Her pride would be evident in her voice. "But I must say that the same rules for them apply to you. Choosing sides is always a dangerous game, John. And strong, wise, and_ handsome _as you are, you are still a side in a growing storm." Maybe her smile would lose some of its mirth, but it would not be his focus._

 _John had to focus on what to say to her next. Not a counter, not an argument. Arguments worked from the high ground to the low. When working up hill, you needed low resistance, conserve energy, ensure strong footing. Conversations were the same, especially with merchants._

 _"I'm not looking for a favor or aide," he would need to say. "I'm looking for protection in the house of the lord." She would grin brightly at that._

 _She would be the only one of the church members he had seen to recognize the phrase._

 _"And for what do you need the lord's shield?" Yolanda would return as she leaned on her knees, a glint in her lone eye. "Are you chased by demons of your own make? Or are you looking to offer salvation to another you care about?" Hunt or Hunted. The key question to decide on what to purchase. John needed firepower._

 _"I wish to quell the sins of others," he would say next. It was the last code words he would need. "Something that they will not realize is there." Because that would be all Yolanda would need to acquire what she needed for him._

 _She would sit on it for a moment though, waiting patiently. She was not in a rush for time like he was, and any good merchant knew that biding time when the other had time to lose made for better deals. So John would have to wait for Yolanda to either assume her patience had run its course or hand over begin to discuss what was important._

 _It would happen eventually, however. She had never forsaken a deal before and she was not one to begin new habits. If the Ripoff church remaining the only unchanged part of Roanapur was anything to focus on, it was that she was consistent. And consistency was key to determining what would happen. He only needed to focus._

 _"We have what you need, I'm sure we do." John had confidence she would. "The only difficulty that I'm coming to is the price to be met. You are an old friend John, and one that I do enjoy conversations with, but offering salvation without gold is not something I can afford. Not in this city." Though cruel as Roanapur was, John knew that the rule held strong in all nations that held a Continental as well._

 _She would want gold, however. Thankfully, John had just enough left to pay. Possibly._

 _He would take out the last coin he had. A meager amount, to be sure, but enough to attract her attention. Hardly enough to earn more than a nice meal or a fine tour, but nothing scoff at either. A merchant did not turn down profit. Yolanda was a master merchant in the city of thieves._

 _"A single coin?" He would nod at the question. "A gold mark can go a great ways, but it has little else to depend on. You would need to have some skill to use whatever we can provide for…_ that _amount." Her head would indicate towards the coin, perhaps as her hands motioned towards the product crates that she had out in the open._

 _Her insinuation, which would be somewhere between bargaining and honest truth, would mean one of two outcomes. He would either be obtaining a low-quality weapon that one of their previous clients refused to pay for, or he would be getting a low power weapon that was not worth keeping inventory of._

 _He needed the former. The later he already had. So he would need to emphasize such._

 _"Even if it isn't your best, I'll make do." John always had before. "I only need it to be able to last the night." An emphasis on the quality of the weapon would be all the indication Yolanda would need._

 _She would grin brightly at the words, either knowing what to get him or having an idea of where to find it. Either would be enough for him, because either was what he needed. No matter the reasoning, her next action would be clear._

 _"I can procure you such an item. I only need you to promise that you didn't receive it from me." A neutral party didn't want to be associated with the crimes their client committed. Gunlords prospered in war because both sides thought they were loyal. Yolanda of the Ripoff Church was not seen so kindly by the other thieves of Roanapur, but the ignorance of her operations was the bliss of the murders about it._

 _It was clear what she would ask. It was just as evident John would agree. He never spoke of her before and that would not change._

 _It would be difficult to determine what would happen next. The specific events would be difficult, even with a hard focus on Yolanda and the Ripoff Church. It would be hard because she was no longer in the same company as she was over ten years ago._

 _She would call in the nun and priest that were there before, either by their names or some title that he was not familiar with. They would grab the gun from the supply crates, with the ammunition as well, then hand it off to him. Where that crate was, how long it would take, and what the model was was currently impossible to tell._

 _He had no idea to know how her fellow nun and the young priest would move with the orders of the old woman, aside from showing her the respect for her seniority. And it was the inability to focus well on them that would lead to the outcome altering slightly, minutely, based upon how they acted._

 _John could only be sure he would leave with a weapon and Yolanda a gold token richer._

* * *

It was easy to see Yolanda helping him, even as he focused on the guards at the gates of the Cartel compound. He returned his focus to them.

Per his assumptions, on the mark of his calculations, they were rotating shifts, a pair moving in behind the guards at the head, a shoulder tap, and then the old guards moving back into the compound. Eyes never leaving the perimeter. Smart, organized, _focused_.

Always a hand on their weaponry, never taking a cigarette out of pocket, never drinking water, never doing anything that would leave them vulnerable for even a moment. The actions spoke of great detail to their combat abilities. It also confirmed, if silently, the value to the compound they guarded.

It was still yet impossible to tell how truthful or sure Rock's words were, but it was clear that this was far from any simple safehouse of the Cartel. John had been tasked by the Russian Mob of the United States, Porto Rico, and Italian branches to disrupt Cartel activity before. Safehouses they used were often more settled to seclusion of land rather than well guarded, hoping to have the people inside remain forgotten rather than guarded.

Without focus, it seemed foolish. With it, it came to be only cruel. The Cartel chose seclusion for those they 'protected' because they never truly intended to protect them. The killers would find them, the killers would end them, and because the individuals being guarded were often alone, nothing else was lost.

When the safehouse was held in seclusion, it was a shooting range. Given this compound and its defenses, something of immense value was here.

It was still too early to say Rock was honest about the detail of the operations being held here, even if there was fruit to the words. Despite the focus John gave to the facility, he only ever returned with confirmation of its defenses, its worth, and its need to be kept safe. It all implied what Rock spoke of, but did not confirm it.

Confirmation would require eyes on the target. He knew this well. He had to remain focused on that. He needed to find and hold the information and documents, paper or electronic or anything other medium the Cartel chose to detail their receipts and transports on. Once he had that, then he could proceed forward.

His head slid off of the scope of the rifle again. This time, John moved it from the window, in case a curious eye saw it. A gun in a perch like this for too long would gather the Cartel's attention. That was focus he did not want on him. Rather, he needed to focus on what next, after he had spoken to Yolanda and procured an extra weapon.

It was incredibly important to remain focused on the order of operations for a takedown. He was concluding the recon now. He would gather the weapons necessary to make the breach of the compound most efficient. He would move through the compound floor by floor, prioritizing the exits first and using any explosives the guards had on hand to create choke points. They would have same, as all Cartel members did.

John shook his head. He missed a step. That was bad. He had to go back and focus.

After he procured the weapon, he needed to procure an eye to watch him. He needed someone to watch and make sure that he would not be followed in by reinforcements too quickly. Even better, if possible, he needed someone to be able to ensure that he would be able to leave enough time for Balalaika and her mend to secure the compound after he left.

If the Cartel was able to take over the compound once he took it down, then it would all be for nothing. A waste of his focus. He could not wait for men to arrive. They would kill him. He needed to ensure that they would not enter after him, or come up behind him.

To do that, he needed to have their barracks, or equivalent therefrom, to be either under another assault or be indisposed by some greater attack. A knockout of the radio towers, a killing of their radio command, burning of the compound, enough so that there was no feasible way for them to reach this safehouse by the time John's takedown began.

He focused on any contacts he had who could aid him, and afford to be aided. One came to mind, though risky as it was. It was possible. Possible, but he needed to focus to think of how to convince the man.

For Dutch, even the guilt of betrayal wouldn't work. Threats could. He had to only focus on the in between. Thankfully or not, it wouldn't be him he started to speak with.

* * *

 _John would tune the radio he stole from one of the Russian men to the predetermined frequency, 328.8. The same frequency as US command posts, posts that had not been present in the Roanapur area before he left and had not appeared afterwards. A frequency that was safe to speak on._

 _It was the frequency he gave to Rock of the Lagoon company, one he told him to tune the radio in the ship to for if he needed anything else. John knew the man would do just that. He had focused on him enough in the room to know that he wouldn't forget details easily, especially details that led to information and profit gain. A true intelligence dealer._

 _John had been focused on the young salaryman when he had spoken to him earlier. His words, mannerisms, intents, everything he could see. Rock knew the man was honest, careful, and most importantly, cunning. Those qualities, however, John wasn't going to focus on._

 _When the conversation started, he would focus on the emotion he saw in the presence of someone else. Empathy. That was a simple emotion to play off of._

 _"Matchstick," John would speak carefully into the radio speaker, ensuring that no one else around him heard. A simple code word from before he joined the Continental, a call sign from his old unit. The killers and thieves of Roanapur wouldn't recognize it. Rock, if he was careful, would._

 _"… Lighter," came the soft reply through the radio. "… Is something wrong?" Rock would ask first, doubtlessly. The man was focused heavily on learning what was happening. He would ask first what had happened, disguising it as compassion. A true information broker, through and through._

 _"No," John would reply simply. Any indication that his plan had altered would lead to Rock, and the Lagoon Company, seeking further compensation. That wasn't negotiable, present or future. And in the future, he knew Rock would be just as careful. "Who else is present?"_

 _There would be a silence, the salaryman confident in handling information, but not at giving orders. He would follow the lead of those present on the other end of the radio, Dutch and the mad woman who had attacked him. Both were fat stronger than the Japanese man, John could tell. What he could not was how they would react to him._

 _"Myself," Rock would start, leaving a pause. He would do so in the hope that John would accept it. He would not. "And… Dutch and Revy." He knew Dutch. Revy was the name Rock had screamed in the Russian compound before. Doubtlessly the mad woman would be present. He hadn't killed her, and she wouldn't accept not fighting._

 _He didn't need to focus much on her to know that she would not give up easily. The mad look in any killer's eyes was proof enough._

 _"Gotta admit, didn't think I'd ever be hearin' from you again, John." Dutch would cut in then. A businessman like those employed by the Continental, but dealing instead with liars, thieves, and killers. Little different, different only in the lack of honor or law. "Figured you'd call this all even, seein' as Rock got the Marker from you."_

 _John knew Rock would tell them about it. Dutch would not accept his employees having secrets, and having the Marker was a secret that would be too large to hide. Perhaps a more experienced broker could, but Rock was too new, too green, to possibly know how to lie and hide from Dutch._

 _"This definitely ain't no social call either, not from the big bad Babayaga himself." He hated that name and Dutch was aware of it. So, he would use it often, to disrupt John's focus. It wouldn't work. "Can't even say that I'm happy ta hear from you either, seein' as the last time my employees met ya you kidnapped one and shot the other through the leg."_

 _"Fucker's gonna regret that shit." John could only assume the woman would be unable to speak politely or hold her tongue. She had charged into a Russian fight before, yelling curses and feral battle cries. "Lucky he's still got a head on his shoulders without a new vent shaft in it." Her threats would be obvious barbs, colorful as her hair._

 _"Ice it, Rev," Dutch would return. He was experienced and capable when it came to controlling his employees. Dealing with killers before and after John left would make him hard as steel. "So why the social call, John? Pretty sure you gave the rig and code to Rock for us callin' in that favor. It ain't the other way around." He was not Yolanda. He would not find pleasantries before business._

 _John paused his imaginings, focusing on what would be the correct thing to say. It had to involve discussing the Cartel compound and the barracks, wherever those were. He had to do so in a way that would convince the Lagoon company to help without asking for more. It would involve a great number of gambles, difficult because he didn't know enough about Rock or Revy. Only Dutch._

 _"I need assistance for Rock's plan to work." Beginning there would be good. It would emphasize that the plan was not his own, shifting the blame from himself. "To ensure that I have time to takedown the safehouse, I need to have the guard barracks indisposed for a few hours. Enough time for Balalaika's men to take over the safehouse before the Cartel reinforcements can arrive."_

 _"Extra firepower?" Dutch would add on quickly. He would list everything else. "Man hours, transportation, additional services, bullets and munitions, that's a lost of cost John. From what Rock tells me, you're on the short of high and dry." He would be quick to catch up on what he needed. But John's objective, his focus, would not be on what he needed, but shifting attention._

 _"That is why I need you to either amend the plan or assist me with it." The battle plan operator never joined the field, but neither did they create a false plan to attempt to gain victory. If he could convince the Lagoon Company they needed to do more to honor the deal, that would work._

 _"Can't do that free of charge, John." Dutch would hold his ground, for now. "Deal was you get a plan and Rock gets a Marker. Didn't say anything 'bout the plan having to be a solo job or extra guns for hire." That it didn't, and Dutch would not forget it._

 _"No," he would admit. There was still another hand to play, and then would be the time. "But my failure would mean your inability to collect the debt. I cannot help you if I fail." That would attract Dutch's attention, Rock's as well._

 _His failure would mean death, and death would mean they would lose both the single operation to hire him for and any other information they could gather from him. For a businessman and a broker, it would be a large loss to them. He could only hope, focus on the fact, that they were not inclined to lose him._

 _"That's still too dangerous for us," Dutch would add on now. "If we fight the Cartel, and they see us, then they will either blacklist us, or worse, send out their own squads for a revenge killing. We don't have the ability to resist one of the four gangs coming down on us. Again." John remembered the first time it had happened. Now though, things were different._

 _"I say we do it." Rock would assist him now. He was crafty, but that meant he didn't want to lose his gains. "Dutch, I-I'm sorry but he's right. If John dies then I gave up all that intel for nothing, and the Cartel could still put two and two together and figure out what John was doing and why. Worse, if John gets captured alive, then there's nothing stopping him from telling them about me or the company."_

 _And a snide broker knew that there were no alliances in a city of thieves, only convenient sources of income._

 _"So you're sayin' we're damned if we do, fucked if we don't?" Dutch would add on again. John would only watch the radio silently as the conversation continued. Even now he would only be guessing what they were saying. When the conversation happened, it would be impossible to hear them over an undepressed radio._

 _"I'm suggesting that we help John, because him succeeding is the safest path for us now, and the most profitable." Rock would counter with the obvious. "This way, we don't lose anything but some ammunition and a day's worth of work. We know where the Cartel Barracks are, from our drop offs, so it won't be hard to distract or barricade them."_

 _It was a presumption on John's part that they would know, but it was a high chance that they did. Dutch or Rock would have at least an idea. Both were intelligent men._

 _"I'm with Rock on this one," Revy would choose Rock over Dutch. He hadn't seen her interact with his old friend beyond pulling guns on him before, but she was the one who nearly killed herself for the broker before. Now would be no different, seeing what the Japanese man was thinking._

 _"Can't say I'm shocked you're lookin' for a bit of blood, but you know you're not goin' for John's neck on this one, right?" Dutch would say something of those lines, referring to the wound he had afflicted on Revy. It was a logical question, but given the girl's apparent desire to protect, and eagerness to kill, her answer was similarly expected._

 _"Course I do! But I'm getting bloodied and I'll fucking enjoy it!" She would roar back. "Better yet, I'll rip out the fucker's heart Mayan style next chance I get. He's gotta fucking survive this donkey shit show if I'll get the chance though. So we're gonna save the ass of the rucking Russian demon and I'll get my ten pounds of_ fuckmeat _!" All of this would still be in silence. All of this, until this moment._

 _"John Wick, Babayaga," Rock would speak, using name and title. "Revy and I can help. What do you need?"_

 _That would be enough for John._

* * *

Rock and Revy, as the young salaryman had called out to her, would be valuable if she was as blood thirsty as he perceived her to be. It was a difficult thing to distinguish, even with his focus on her for that singular moment in his raid.

She was focused as well, capable, experienced as well, but lacked polish and skill. There was no training behind her strikes and kicks, everything involved the near totality of her weight behind the blows. Pushing the opponent back, trying to gain access to the weaponry again. It was a fighting form based off of experience, not practice or skill. It a bit of focus on the differences made that clear.

But she was strong, and talented, enough for Dutch to hire her. He wouldn't risk himself, as the leader of his smuggling operation. But Revy would help, if Rock said he would, and a bullet wound wouldn't stop her.

The doors to the compound were opening again, reminding John to look through the scope lens again, repositioned once more. He saw the pair of guards within step away from the opening structure, allowing the familiar white vehicle to drive by. The tint of the glass made the occupants almost impossible to see. The shapes he could see were too murky to count.

It was disappointing, but focusing on disappointment was useless. He had to focus on what he knew. What he knew was they rotated guards into and out of the facility frequently. The rotation was doubtlessly designed to prevent fatigue in the guards and keep a vigilant perimeter for the goods stored within. A bit of focus made it evident.

John went further, focusing on the similarities. The men operated like privates in the army, their focus and skill showing in their stance and inability to distract themselves. That implied similar procedures for operating the unit. Operations involving the protection of facilities usually implied barracks, as he suspected they had.

He had focused on their actions and reached the conclusion they had a barracks of some sorts for their men. Focused on both their number, their skill, and the frequency of change. It was nearly a confirmed fact now.

That was good. Knowing were the enemy stayed was an excellent fact to focus on. It made it easier to determine the points for attack, to focus fire on first to cause the maximum amount of damage to the infrastructure of the enemy unit. Now was no different.

Revy and Rock, if John convinced them, would assist him in destroying or distracting the barracks of the Cartel. Enough so that he would be able to takedown the Cartel safehouse he currently observed with minimal interference. That was preferred. However, that was not all it told him.

It told him that the frequent vehicles were likely taking alternate paths to reach the barracks, likely to keep untrained spies or would be observers guessing. It was nothing more than a delay than anything else. Any small amount of focus would see through the poor disguise. John saw through it quickly enough.

He could use that though. The alternate paths meant that the guards at the gates likely didn't lookout for a vehicle setting down one specific path. That implied that they would check only the vehicle at first, not the area it came from.

If John got that vehicle, on its way to the compound, then he would be able to get much closer to the compound than approaching from the streets. That was important. He had to focus on that.

Any amount of focus to his approach told how the guards were likely looking out for him now, his face now known from the fight at the Yellowflag and the many killers that were there, desperate or otherwise. They would watch out for him and fire without impunity. That meant he had to find a way to approach them safely.

The tinted windows of a friendly vehicle was one such way. Even if a too common one. That could be an issue.

The military had callsigns for approaching friendly vehicles for that reason. An off market and modified Jeep could be mistaken for a friendly APC if given enough paint and metal work. Callsigns kept friendlies common in the desert heat. The Cartel would very likely have something similar. It wasn't something he could discern by focusing on them.

It could have been common amongst the Cartel entire, unique the facility, or even something that changed day to day to keep intel secure. Given the security of the base, the latter was most likely. That meant it was not something he could easily find, and not something that Rock would know. His information would be dated.

John focused on that, staring at the guards, their vests, and the small radio coils that rolled up the lengths into the short brim of their hats. There had to be a way to gather the callsign, enough so that he could at least drive to the gate. That close and he could dispatch the first for guards and gain cover to tag the last eight. Then the takedown could commence.

It was not something he could determine through focus alone, not so quickly. He had little time to take what he needed and even less time once he got it. John knew, focusing on his past, that once he obtained the vehicle and radio codes, there would be a routine checkup, a squad update. If that was missed, skipped, or even delayed, suspicion would rise. If the vehicle was completely absent, including the personal, it would be labeled compromised and disposed of on sight.

John felt his lips twist thinking of who would have the information that he needed, an old ally that may have that kind of information to share, even if for a price. A price, at that, he had to be able to afford. That was not a high value anymore. Not while he was trapped in the city of thieves with the swarm of the Continental at his heels.

John focused on the names that came to his mind, but none were safe, checked off as quickly as they appeared.

Mr. Chang was after him as well, with the bounty information now known Roanapur. He would be more cautious, but still just as quick on the trigger.

Yolanda would already helping him for his last coin and would do no more. She may even sell information about him to the gang leaders for a quick coin.

Dutch would not risk offering services for free and would hopefully have already offered Revy and Rock to assist him.

Balalaika was the most avid person attempting to kill him. No more focus was needed as to why.

Tom Sawyer was dead… but John focused on that. Tom Sawyer was dead, but he had a replacement that he had met and spoken to.

Sawyer, the mute cleaner of Roanapur, the killer of Tom Sawyer, was someone who might assist him. But she would not do so for free, John could tell with a bit of focus. She was broken by the city as much as any other thief or killer, one of those she doubtlessly was.

It was possible, focusing on her connections to the gangs, to know those codes or codes similar enough. It was information necessary for her job.

Focusing on her and what little he knew of her past, John wagered he may know something she would like as well. Maybe an exchange could be made.

* * *

 _He would approach the autopsy room of Sawyer, the butchery and the dismemberment shop. It would be clear if she was present or not very quickly, as he would have given her work from the Hotel and Yellowflag fiascos. The conversation would only happen if she was present. And if she was, she would be working. He would have to focus on that._

 _Focus on the idea that she would have difficulty speaking while working, that her focus would not be on him, and that she would be looking for something he might not have. If he focused his mind on that, then he had a chance to convince her._

 _"Sawyer," he would address easily, to get her attention. He'd wait for her to turn, wait for her to remove her mask filter and cleaning gloves, before addressing her again. He had to focus on her and her systems. Focus on gaining her trust. "I have something to ask you."_

 _She would do something else first, one of a few options. She may gather a weapon with him present, to take the bounty she had to know he was worth now. She may gather a radio or phone, in which case he'd have to shoot her. Or, she could wait for him to speak again. If he focused on her, he could tell what she would do and act as needed._

 _"_ _You should not be here,_ _" she might start out with. Maybe attack him as well. He would be a risk and if she was seen as tainted or compromised, she could be killed. He had to focus on that. "_ _Thet Triads or Hotel will kill me if they find out you were here._ _" She wouldn't be wrong. She might name others as well. But they would be beyond John's focus if she did. He only concerned himself with the Hotel, Triads, and Cartel._

 _"I need to ask a question." Repetition would be important, to show the importance of his question. Cleaners were meant to ask very few. "Rock was able to help me, as you said. You may have something else I need." He couldn't' say it too quickly._

 _Cleaners asked few questions because they were cautious. Any job could be a trap. He had to focus on keeping Sawyer on good terms with him as he spoke. He had to focus on every action she took and made, to ensure that he wouldn't scare her._

 _"I need to know what the call-signs and codes are for the Cartel radios. If possible, where I can find their transport vehicle." He had to remember that she would hate to speak, with severed vocal cords and an external larynx box. She might hide herself behind her afro of purple hair, to hide what she was thinking. Her actions would make it obvious enough._

 _"_ _I don't know it,_ _" would be her obvious first response. No one as ingrained into the nature of Raonapur would freely admit to having such important information. John knew that. "_ _If I did know it, why would I tell you. I would risk being killed by the Cartel. They are not kind to women they kill._ _" Her words would speak of experience as well._

 _She would have cleaned many bodies for them, the women and children the Cartel was known for treating as pack mules. Sexual assault, dismemberment, rubber collars, tongue cutting, and every other torture device they had devised. If he focused on what they did and what Sawyer was responsible for, it made sense she would be wary to wrong them._

 _John had to give a reason for her to take the risk._

 _"I'm going to takedown their main compound." Honesty mattered. It would no longer harm him if she spoke. By the time someone heard her, he would have either succeeded or failed, making it no difference. "If I do this, then they will leave Roanapur. I can as well. I need the radio codes to access their compound." At least get closer, he reminded himself he had to focus on how close he would get._

 _"_ _I don't know them_. " _Them now. She would let slip that she knew the codes through some word or action. He could see her tells from the way she spoke before. Unease created by her injury. Scratching her throat or the back of her neck. "_ _I will not risk myself for something like that anyways. They give me good work. I would lose a client if I did help you._ _" She wouldn't be wrong. It was why he had to give her something of great value to convince her to help him._

 _John would have to remind himself that she didn't know the code words of Continental contacts. It would save time if he spoke plainly to her. If they were in her place of work, it would be safe. No cleaner that lasted in the city of thieves would leave their main place of work vulnerable. It was important to save time, he had to focus on that._

 _"You killed Sawyer." A simple statement to get complete attention. Focus on him was focus on solving his issues, cooperation or not. "He was an old contact of mine in this city." He would stop then. Enough time for Sawyer to decide on what to do. She was talented enough to kill Sawyer, despite being a likely slave or contract for the man._

 _John could kill her, but he didn't want to. Not unless he gave her no other choice. But she would chose something else instead. A question that all cleaners ask a killer they didn't recognize._

 _"_ _Are you here to kill me then?_ _" She would be concerned for her life, as anyone in her position would be. Killers and cleaners always focused on their own life when they knew they were in a bad situation. Now was no different. John had to focus on making it_ appear _just like that. "_ _I have already hidden your gold._ _" That was to make killing her seem less rewarding. John would follow it with an offer of his own._

 _"I don't intend to avenge Tom," the honest answer was necessary, but it wouldn't be believed. He had to offer something that Sawyer would want, or at least be curious about. Either was good enough for the timing that he had, that was the focus. "I intend to offer you his personal cache."_

 _That would earn the girl's attention._

 _She was a member of the city of thieves, a horrible city like Roanapur. Where there were no laws amongst the killers, money mattered all the more. Because the more money you had, the more protection you could afford. She had protection for her job, but a single bad assignment, the wrong agreement could kill her, she knew this. Sawyer did as well._

 _He had told John once that he had the cache designed in case he was ever betrayed. Enough gold to leave town and possibly start a new life. More likely, it was there to give him enough of a head start to make cahsing him worthless, assuming he did nothing to anger the mob heads._

 _To John, hunted by the world of killers and Continentals across nations, no amount of money would keep him safe. It was a worthless thing to him. To Sawyer, a girl trying to survive in one of the darkest city on Earth, it would be worth a hundred times more than the gold he had paid her before. She would recognize that._

 _The question was if she would believe him._

 _"_ _You are lying_ _," she would begin, or threaten. "_ _You would take that if it was real._ _" Then it would be his turn to explain his reasoning._

 _"I'm being hunted by killers who have no need for wealth." If she didn't know who was chasing him, it wouldn't matter to tell her. Mr. Chang or Balalaika may tell her, if she survived long enough. "Money would do little for me now. I only need to escape. That is all."_

 _But she still wouldn't be convinced. He had to speak more. He had to focus on what she wanted to hear. He had to think of the sex slavers he had killed in the Middle Eastern countries and the girls he had seen in the Russian dens. What did they want and Sawyer not already have?_

 _The same thing she was emulating. Protection._

 _"I do not know what is in it aside from gold." That had to be present. "But it may have contacts that you could use, houses you could keep, or many other things. With Tom dead, and you his replacement, they are yours." Because they weren't worth anything to John. Especially if he couldn't even leave the city to find them._

 _What good was a safehouse to him when it wasn't safe to set foot outside of Roanapur?_

 _Sawyer could use them. Sawyer could find them. Sawyer could benefit from them._

 _But first, and she would realize quickly, she had to be a benefit to him._

 _"_ _… … … I may have codes for the next day._ _" Her words would be an admission of aid. What she would say and where those benefits were he could not tell. That was the focus of the conversation. And if the conversation evolved as he thought it would, then he would obtain it._

 _He could afford to give up a case of gold to be able to march ten feet closer to the Cartel Compound._

* * *

John let out a long sigh as he finished the list in his head, confirming that with enough focus, the conversations would evolve in such a manner.

He had researched the compound of the Cartel, affirming Rock's information of the intel present, but risking the weight that it had.

He could speak to Yolanda about procuring an additional armament to make the breach easier, and allowing the takedown to commence.

He would call Rock and speak to him and Dutch of the use of Revy for distracting the Cartel through their barracks, offering the girl a fight.

He would attempt to speak to Sawyer and trade the information of Tom Sawyer's last stash of goods for information on the Cartel radios and cars.

Then, the following morning, he would breach the facility.

John stood from his seat, wrapping the rifle around his back and keeping his focus on the safehouse. In comparison to the beginning of his watch, it had hardly changed at all. The guards had shifted, but not their weaponry. Cars had driven out, but always returned, the doors remained shut, and, aside from the gate, John never saw them open.

It was a Cartel safehouse he was preparing to takedown, one holding valuable information to their network and something that would doubtlessly put him on yet another list for killers to chase. If he didn't die during the breach of the facility, Balalaika's men finding him, or any other number of ways he may have missed, then he would be gaining another tail after his head.

But, if he did succeed, he would also gain a way out of Roanapur. That was what was important. He had to focus on that. Remember that. He was leaving this city soon, and he couldn't forget it.

His shoes clicked as he moved towards the door of the apartment, stepping over the body of a pick-pocket as he did so. His lifted the knife from the body, pushing the blade down and putting it in his jacket pocket, bloodied still.

The door opened with a high squeak, the product of it not being cared for, no focus given to the home he had entered and left. A shame, but something beyond his focus now. For now, he had to focus on what to do next. It was an additional step to the takedown he had not thought of before, but realized now it was vital to the plan.

He had to see his dog. Hopefully Boa would be understanding and patient with him. He was a good man with a good job in an otherwise filthy city.

John would hate to have to kill him.

* * *

The city always did look its best at Twilight. Mr. Chang knew that from the experience of watching the sun set from a high rise. High up and away from all the terror that usually infested the streets of Roanapur. This high up, a good thirty floors in the air, it was impossible to tell if anyone was hurt until their blood started to stain the streets.

It made it easier to appreciate the night lights that started to flicker on as the shadows of night crept over the connected buildings of the dense city. As the stars dotted the sky and turned the dark alleyways into pitch-block covens, the neon signs of booze, sex, and music disguised every atrocity that otherwise ran across the harbor town.

He wouldn't admit it to even the richest member of his gang, but he preferred it that way. Being able to ignore all the horrible acts that ran through the city, even if for only a few hours a day.

Much as he loved running the Triads division out of Roanapur, there was still something about being a cop that stuck with him. Knowing that at one point in his life he was supposed to help protect the people, the innocent bystanders who were given snake-eyes on the roll and ended up between guns and grenades out on the city streets. Taking down the crooks who would pull the pins and triggers, trying to keep those little guys safe, it wasn't something you forgot with just an exchange of a metal badge.

It was engrained into him. No different than Balalaika's lust for war or Dutch's penchant for leadership, Mr. Chang wasn't going to forget about protecting the little guy just because he was a mob head now.

It just made the choices he made a little more bitter to swallow. Sell out the next shipment of ID stripped American rifles to insurgents, killing off a few factory workers to bring out the shipment for smuggling, small things that had to be done from orders up top.

At least when he was looking over the shit hole that was Roanapur at twilight, he could convince himself it wasn't such a bad place to be.

Too bad mother fucking John Wick had to burn that dream to cinders.

"Tch," Mr. Chang clicked as he felt the nub of his cigarette burn out. He grabbed it, flicking it to an ash tray as he fished for another fresh stick. No sooner was it in his mouth than did one of the lackeys behind him produce a small flame to burn. His mouth twisted, letting the end of the Marlboro burn under the heat.

Nicotine didn't do a lot compared to the hard-core drugs of the Cartel or his own division, but it sure tasted a heck of a lot better.

He kept his mind on that for a moment, just the taste of it. Really, just on anything that wasn't the idea of John Wick roaming through Roanapur. Running through the place with a bounty high enough to make the women drop to their knees. Sure he'd seen more cash all at once, but never so much being offered to the lucky bastard who pulled a trigger at the right man.

Then again, maybe lucky wasn't the word for it. Mr. Chang was having some extreme amount of difficulty remembering anyone who shot at the Babayaga of the Russian mob and lived to tell about it. Heck, anyone who lived long enough to realize they _fucked up_.

His head fell back, moving away from the night lights of Roanapur to the high ceiling of his suite. Even if it was pre-schoolish, he blamed John for ruining the sights. It was easy to forget that a woman was raped once a night and twice as many murders in the same amount of time. It was pretty damn easy to forget when you'd seen it for two decades in the town. It was even easier than that when he realized most of the men who fucked up on either side would get fucked by a bad deal in the future.

But John Wick. There was no fucking with John Wick.

There was being lucky enough to have him on your side, then there was praying to whatever god put the man on Earth to spare you. God or demon, it didn't matter.

When a man like John Wick rolled into town, the dead piled up. Even a decade later, that didn't seem to have changed.

"Why the fuck did you do it John?" Mr. Chang asked the ceiling, knowing he'd get about a straight answer from it as he would any of his men. "Fucking killed a dozen of her men, raided a warehouse, kidnapped Rocky, and shot my _fucking_ car." Right in the order of best to worse.

Problem was, worse at the moment was the tension filled through the street. A tension thick and hard enough to make his usual sights of the city sour and lame. There was no way to enjoy a city skyline knowing that John wick was hiding out in it.

It was flat out impossible when he remembered that there was a war waiting to blow up because of it.

Balalaika had her men out on the streets, standing as decoys on corners with scouts and snipers up in the buildings. Her mesh work of data was probably running at its high capacity as she dug through every contact he had and built up raiding parties for any crevice the town kept for a decade. She'd be taking her lust out on the Babayaga, and worse yet, Mr. Chang didn't know who would win.

No, that wasn't the worst. The worst was that his men were out on the street as well.

A cop wouldn't let thugs and gangs roam the streets free and cheery. A mob boss wouldn't let the competition waltz down central avenue like they owned the place. So both sides of Mr. Chang told him to put his men out there, just about copying the Hotel's operations.

That meant putting his people in the line of fire of a blood thirsty woman and a man colder than the deepest pits of hell.

His hand rose and slipped under the frames of his thick black glasses, rubbing his bleary eyes. This was all just one giant mess he really wish wasn't tracked to his doorstep. Yet, here it was, and he'd be killed by the men behind him if he didn't step up and act. Too bad that just mean they were all more likely to die.

"What's going to happen? What's. Gonna. Happen?" Mr. Chang spoke to himself, rubbing his tired eyes. "Not going to be stupid enough to attack without a plan. But a plan involves contacts and you've got none left in this town Johnny." Maybe one or two, but none that would chose John over the Hotel or Triads. No one in Roanapur was stupid enough to chose one man over the gangs.

"Not gonna attack first then, but no where to run off to. Got the ports covered, got the roads watched, and walkin' through the jungle ain't gonna be easy when you're low on everything from bullets to food." He might last a day, but John wasn't the kind of guy to take action without having thought five steps ahead. Walking alone into the jungle? Only the truly stupid or screwed did that.

"Then what are ya gonna do? Gotta think of somethin' or you'll be just another slab of meat on the plate." Probably have to pay Sawyer triple her fee to truly make John completely unrecognizable. Last thing they needed was one member of the Continental sniffing his trail down here and finding out who offed him.

John Wick was bad enough. The totality of the killers of Continental all looking for a high payday? The city wouldn't survive. Literally.

"Then what? Then what are you gonna do?" Mr. Chang leaned forward as he asked himself the question again, elbows resting on his knees and eyes glued to the fabric floor. Really was a nice carpet, too. Freshly cleaned of the blood and brains that littered it a couple of days ago.

If things went south here, then it'd be someone else cleaning him up.

He had to think of what the Babayaga was doing, even just a hint of an idea. If he had something, then maybe he could get a little closer to John's plan. Two steps behind wasn't so bad when you had the city covered like a net. Five behind, that just meant that John could snag a boat and skip town before Mr. Chang gave the word to fire.

Time was important, and he just couldn't focus on it.

Too bad _he_ wasn't John Wick. Focus was never an issue for a guy like that.

Middle of a fire fight, walking through a fire, trapped behind enemy lines, or doing the impossible in the cold hard capital of murder in the world, and John would still think of a plan to get out. A plan that'd involve him using his guns and brains to blow the enemies' away.

A scary fucker like that wouldn't get overwhelmed by the situation he was in. Mr. Chang knew he couldn't let it got to him either. The war wasn't on yet, and he could stop it, so long as someone, even if it wasn't him, nabbed John and got him either to the Continental or the Hotel. So long as one of them happened, the tension would end.

Too bad he couldn't count on miracles. He wasn't the kind of guy to make the impossible happen.

Once again, that honor fell to the fucking boogeyman himself.

"Fuck," Mr. Chang whispered out again. "Sometimes I really hate my job." And right now, he did. Mostly because knew what he had to do, at least until something broke.

Nothing. He could do nothing.

He would continue to say nothing and do nothing until something _fucking_ bad happened. Until then, anything he did would be either pouring more gas on the grill or hovering a flame over an open bomb. Neither of those really appealed to him.

Especially not when he knew that a war in this town would kill a hell of a lot more people than his worst month back as a cop.

That was something he couldn't afford to happen.

"John Wick," he mumbled again. "I don't give a fuck what you do now, not so long as you get the fuck out of this city." Too bad he knew that was going to involve a hell of a lot more blood than he'd like to see.

He really did hate his job sometimes. Waiting sucked like a discount whore.


	10. Fountain Foes

"This ain't sitting right with me," a Cuban man spoke, leaning back in his chair. The man next to him ignored the comment, eyes glued to the screens in front of him. "A _demonio_ shows up in Roanapur and we proceed on as if _nada ha cambiado_."

" _Nada HA cambiado_ ," the vigilant guard returned. His fingers danced over a keyboard in front of them, controlling one of the cameras surveying the western end of the building. "Doesn't matter if its _contra viento y marea,_ we keep watch. _Comprende?_ " The first Cuban sneered at his compatriot, even as his eyes turned back to the screen.

A series of screens showing the multitude of walls, hallways, doors, and most importantly, personal within and without the compound. No less than the optimal number of cameras, all controlled by a few well placed and easy to manage controls and keyboards. And all of them for the pair of Cuban Mercenaries to manipulate and monitor.

"I'm serious, _amiigo_ ," the Cuban guard continued, even as his eyes trailed another set of monitors. "Used to only have to worry about _Caracortada_ and _Hombre Sonriente_ , make sure they don't get to close to _los bienes_ and their men stay _cien metros_ away. Now? Now we have _the demonio_ that murdered some of the best walking around the city."

His friend still didn't respond, eyes on the monitors. He flicked past a few, checking and ensuring that the gate hadn't moved and the guards present continued their patrols. No one was behind schedules or rotations yet. Still not blind spots left uncovered. All was according to standard procedures so far.

"Bad enough that the _borrachos y putas_ are all ducking their tails, but now we have to look out for a _Babayaga_ whose supposed to be _más mortífero que un monstruo_." He sighed at the words, fingers slamming down on the keyboard as they worked. "Makes you wish you were out there hunting for the big game, instead of _perdiendo el tiempo dentro_." His friend knew he just wanted to smoke.

Then again, so did he. But there was no smoking in the lone terminal station of the Cartel Compound. The smoke could make it harder to see the finer details on the monitors, affect the audio quality of the radio, and generally lower the reaction time in case something happened. As former soldiers, as _well-paid_ mercenaries, that wasn't acceptable.

"It doesn't matter, _hombre_ ," the vigilant guard spoke, leaning back in his seat. No issues on the monitors and no shifts due for some time. Rotations were coming up in another minute. "The _jefe_ says we watch, we watch. You wanna try your luck against _Babayaga_ , be my guest. But then it'll be _you_ whose _más mortífero que un monstruo_."

"I said _nada_ about fighting the _demeno_." The guard shot back. "I said it's _stupido_ nothing has changed. No more rotations, no more guns, nothing. Staying inside like this invites _muerte_. We must have more than this."

"This is enough," was his response. "The _Babayaga_ is a deadly _hombre_ , but only _un hombre_. An _hombre_ that is not after us either. If we attempt to make ourselves more of a target, the _jefe_ will _te corté por tu estupidez_." He got a snort before he got an answer.

"The _jefe_ will do that if the _Babayaga_ shows up at all. It'll be easier to say we were over prepared than not prepared enough. I'd home the _Babayaga_ kills me 'fore I see the _jefe_ after that kind of mistake. Or else _estaré colgado antes del almuerzo."_ The vigilant guard nodded his head. There was no arguing that point.

If they were to lose the compound for any reason, it wouldn't be a quick death they'd be given. It'd be lucky for them to be killed at all, at least before every form of torture the Cartel knew was used on them. Best way to keep lips still was to show what happened to the loose ones, like women on the street after a bad bust by the cops.

"Sides, just cause the _Babayaga_ is loose in this _ag_ _újero de mierda_ does not mean a _marica_ like you can-" _KRRRZZZZTT_ Conversation stopped as the radio crackled to life. Both guards abandoned their conversation without comment. Whenever the radio came to life, their complete attention was needed. But two seconds of constant static and they already felt on edge.

" _Holla_." Both of the Cuban soldiers looked to one another as the question crackled through the radio station. Something was wrong, and they knew it.

"I thought the last _soldados_ got here _hace unas horas_? Who the fuck is this?" The question came with a point at the radio box. He only got a shaking head an dismissive comment in return.

"Don't know," the soldier responded, eyeing the radio with as much caution as his fellow guard. "Maybe a late transit. Maybe some _tanto_ sittin' on the call. Maybe some _endeble_ lookin' to make a big name for himself. Can't say."

"I got _veinte dólares_ it's a pick-pocket lookin' to show his _valor_." The guard returned, pointing at the rig again. "And the poor _soldados_ that lost _his rig_ is gonna be _disparado al infierno_." His friend diverted his eyes away from the radio rig long enough to give him the stink eye.

" _Convenido_ , _est_ _úpido_ ," the guard spoke back. "Be ready to pay up, or I'll be tellin' _jefe_ you're the one who fucked up the radios. _Entender?_ " The other guard only laughed back in response, even as his eyes focused on the radio.

 _KRRRZZZZTTT_ The radio continued to crackle as the pair waited for the radio to continue. They both knew what to do, having to transit the gates no less than five times a day. Protocol wasn't going to broken for morbid curiosity.

That meant watching the monitors as the radio continued to draw on, making sure the patrols were on duty, all the guards were still armed, and no one entered the fourth room of the second hall. There wasn't even a portrait out of place in the manor. If they weren't watching live feeds they helped set up, the guards could have mistaken the videos being played for loops, seeing as their fellow soldiers walked in such a controlled manner.

But their attention kept going back to the crackling radio, waiting for the response to come back. A missed key word, the wrong phrase, and they'd open up the flood gates for the poor fool who grabbed the radio to be gunned down. That, or take bets on the guard that would be given the rubber necklace for their stupidity.

" _Holla,_ " the voice came again, earning both Cuban men's attention. " _Los pájaros están en Nueva York_. " And immediately after that, one of the guards cussed out, slapping at an empty cup on the table. It hit the far wall and fell to the ground uselessly. His friend only smirked.

" _Más fácil veinte dólares,_ " he jibbed at his friend, getting a rude dismissal and hand wave for the efforts. Playing was fun, but protocol had to be followed. Failure to do so would mean _their_ punishment. The bet winning guard quickly depressing the radio's switch. " _Holla! Qué tipo de pájaros son?_ "

He released the button, the radio crackling again on the other end of the line. The speaker, whoever they were, didn't have long to respond. They had three… two…

" _Rojo azul y follada por todas partes_." The guard almost slammed the radio down. No way was that a guess. " _Am I clear to enter now?_ " The switch between English and Spanish was too jarring. The accent was there, but there wasn't even a slip of the tongue between his words.

"He got it right, but this is still _demasiado jodidamente raro_." There was no need to argue a point they both agreed on. Off time, different driver, no warnings, no heads up, the _jefe_ would've told us something."

"The _jefe_ got the codes worked out so he wouldn't have to tell us." The vigilant guard responded back to his fellow Cuban. " _Un sistema que sigues o follas_ is what he told us. I'm not looking for a fucking from his tools." Not even the crazy would.

"And I'm not askin' ya to risk that." The guard responded back. "Just double check with the _Americano_. Ask a question that's believable, or else I'll _arriesgar mi culo_." That made the other guard roll his head. As long as it wasn't his ass on the line, it was hard to say not to a risk. Would've made for a good excuse to trade for someone better at the job. Depressing the radio button, the guard spoke back into the microphone.

"Care ta tell us why there's another transit, _Americano_?" The accent made it too easy to tell. "Got no word from the higher ups, and doin' this without orders is _movimiento estúpido_." The other guard chuckled at the words, the agreement between the two plain.

"I was paid to deliver three more men from the barracks by five hundred hours." The guard speaking into the radio clicked his tongue. A military man then, like them. American Military wasn't as stupid as the rest of their populace. Not an amateur at least. Just meant he was more suspicious. "Told that if I didn't make it to you fast enough, I'd be shot and left for dogs to eat."

"Sounds like the _jefe_ ," the other Cuban spoke up, leaning in with a low voice. "Always _disparar primero y pensar Segundo_." That was an unfortunate truth they couldn't get around. Dammit, it just made the America's story easier to believe!

"You thinkin' of lettin' the _Americano_ in?" The guard asked. They looked at one another, waiting for the other to speak. "Somethin' feels off, but there's too much _tener sentido._ I ain't riskin' a _sangriento asesinato_." He didn't want to either. It'd be stupid to bait the made bull that was their _jefe_.

"And I'm not into being called a _traidor_ before given a _collar de goma_." There wasn't a man in their entire platoon who would. Heck, all of the old army for that matter. "I say no now, and the _Americano_ is legit, the _jefe_ will say we were trying to _sabotear el compuesto._ "

" _Eso es una menitra!_ " He already knew that.

"N _o le importará al jefe_." And that was the cold hard truth about their organization. What the boss said was law, and coing against that law was no different than putting your gun in your mouth. Just longer, more painful, and more damning for the devil.

" _Mierda_ ," the other guard cursed again. They could paint the walls with it in the blood of every _stupido Americano_ and it wouldn't be strong enough a word.

They could turn him away, let the guards outside swiss-cheese the cab when it showed up. But if he was telling the truth, then they and the rest of the squad would be rubber banded and paraded into the streets for the Hotel, Triads, and even Italians to feather, tar, and fuck until they were corpses on the street.

And all that wasn't considering there was still a demon loose in the damn city. Fucking Roanapur.

"You think I should?" he asked his partner back. "Better be sure, cause fucking this up could mean the _jefe_ _asa nuestro culo._ " The fellow guard snarled at the idea. He could growl all he wanted, but it wouldn't change the truth of it. They were hired to keep watch and watch out for suspicious activity.

It figured that the one time something like a red flag came up, it was while the whole city was on lock down. That just meant that erring on caution now would be just as bad as fucking up in the first place. Either way, if they were wrong, they were dead.

" _A la mierda_ , let the _Americano_ in." His arms went up with the declaration. "If it's a trap, the _bastardo_ will be slaughtered quickly. Save the place, the job, and _nuestros culos_." Couldn't argue with that logic. He depressed the radio button, contacting the American again.

"You still there, _Americano?_ " His voice questioned, waiting through the following static for the American soldier to respond.

"I am _._ " At least the bastard wasn't trying to butcher their language anymore with his greasy accent. Small blessings when they were walking through hell, the guard supposed. If they were in the clear, they'd just give the driver a ghost pepper to swallow later.

"We'll open the gates when you're down the road. Not a moment before. You'll get ten seconds ta drive in and not a _soltero_ more. Don't _a la mierda_." He took his hand off the button, watching his fellow guard scowl. " _Que?_ You said to let him in." He was the one on the hot iron seat.

" _Si_ , doesn't mean I'm thrilled about it." Well that made sense at least. Snap decisions in their job were like games of Russian Roulette. Appropriate, given that it was a Russian monster on the loose in the city. "Just thinkin' of what I'm gonna do if this goes south."

"Don't worry, I'll save a bullet." He responded, getting a high finger from the other guard. He laughed it off, the best way to break the tension.

" _Estupido_ ," the guard spoke back, turning his eyes to the cameras. It made sense he was more vigilant now that there was a driver coming. "Just make sure that we check the car comin' in. Don't want _sorpresas obvias_."

" _Si_ _si si si_ ," he drolled back, nodding his head. "Reminds me, too." Reminded him that he couldn't le the guards outside the gates be surprised by any new arrivals. Their guards shooting up a legit car would be the fastest way to get them all killed and hunted by the Cartel proper. Not a place he wanted to be.

"Front posts," he spoke into the radio, depressing a new button with eyes on the appropriate monitor. "A new transit vehicle is approaching. Be prepared for entry within _uno_."

" _Dupdo_ ," came the quick response. He watched one of the guards raise and lower a hand to his mic in the action. At least the cameras weren't on loops then. A hard trick to pull off, but with Spetnaz soldiers and American Hunters in the city, anything was possible.

A tense moment passed in the guard shack, one kept away by the low whine of the television monitors and occasional crackle of the radio. Other than this, nothing more was spoken between the pair. Far quieter than any other average day.

Roanapur was never a safe city, and only the fool came here looking for safety. But this was the first time in the life of their job as mercenaries that they felt truly, honesty, terrified of their choices. Too many ways it could go south, and they wouldn't have more than a breath's moment to react.

" _Mierda. Americano's_ here." One of the guards spoke, pointing t the monitor. The vigilant one looked up, seeing the white sports car driving down the road. It was the right make and model, color too, but the picture didn't show the plate. "Everything looks _bueno_ , can't tell till he gets here and the men come out."

The vigilant guard nodding, even as his hands played with the radio. His other hand reached for the gate button, depressing it as he spoke into the microphone.

"Be ready on target," he spoke to the front guardsman. "Be prepared for _cualquier cosa_." It was an impossible thing to be ready for, but better than that than nothing at all.

" _Dupdo_ ," the command came back, twice. Once from the front guards and twice from the guards within the gates. He and the other Cuban in the command room watched the gate to the compound crawl open, the white compact car waiting in front.

The gate was slow to open, but reached the end quickly enough. When it was, the car drove in, parking in the front of the compound without a turn, as was normal. Still to protocols, the car kept itself on while the gate behind it began to shut, waiting for the compound to be secured before anyone exited the vehicle. All was going to protocol so far.

" _Verificar_ , any issues?" The other guard asked, hand on the radio now. "Any thing odd, wrong, _malo_?"

" _Negativo_ ," one of the guards spoke, even with his rifle raised slightly from its lax position. "Everything checks." And everything so far appeared to order.

"Maybe we're over thinking this," the guard admitted, leaning back as they waited for the gate to shut. Wouldn't be more than a few seconds. "Maybe the _jefe_ is bein' careful for us." The vigilant looked for a response, even with eyes on the monitor. He could find none.

The driver's door to the car swung open, the guard opposite it kept his barrel aimed at the vehicle.

 ** _BANG!_**

And the guard dropped dead. A man dressed in black stood from the car, holding a pistol in one hand and a large riot shield in the other.

" _MIERDA! ES él! Es el Babayaga!"_ The guard screamed, jumping back and letting his chair clatter to the floor. The vigilant guard didn't care to respond. He was too busy now.

" _MIERDA! MIERDA FOLLAR TODO!_ " The vigilant guard yelled. His hands made quick work of the radio, eyes on the screens as gunfire began to rain across them. "All units! Breach at central gate! _Secure Hub Room!_ Repeat: _Sala de concentrador segura!_ "

He watched the screen as fire began to rain down on the man, on the _Babayaga!_

Rifled bullets slammed into the black shield of the man, holding cover by the now exposed edge of the courtyard. He had the shield up over his head, the rest of his body ducked behind the front door of the car as he moved it forward. Fuck! That was his plan!

The car was armored, so their fire was doing shit! The car was armored, out of park, and he was using it as a literal shield with the _riot wall_ to get closer.

Close enough to get closer to their men!

 ** _BANG! BANG!_**

" _Joder!_ " He yelled as he watched two of the guards fall like bags of coke from a druggy's hands. Even through the monitor he could see the holes through their heads, driven through till their brains and blood painted the front walls of the compound.

And the _Babayaga_ never broke stride as he moved closer to the front door!

"Sections _Dos y Tres_ , backup the main gate! _Rapido!_ " They had to hurry! They _HAD_ to.

 ** _BANG!_**

Because the _Babayaga_ was dropping their men like they were first-day _putas_. A car, a shield, and some pistol he couldn't' name, and he was dropping the best mercenary members the Cartel had, al armed with vests, rifles, and enough training to kill any average _Americano_. But it was all doing _shit_ to this man!

 ** _BANG! BANG!_**

A man that had killed six of their best guards in shorter time than it took him to shit, and all without missing a shot. Shots fired from behind a car door, riot shield, and enough automatic fire raining down on him to make the car look like swiss cheese.

If only they hadn't armored it! If only they had checked the car outside the gate! If only they hadn't dared to think the _jefe_ would give them aid!

 ** _BANG!_**

Another shot fired and the last man within the compound walls was dead. That was horrible by any measure. But it wasn't lost yet. He wasn't into the building yet, and the front door was wired to their controls. There was no getting through it fast enough without alerting all of Roanapur and their backup.

The viligant guard nodded to himself, terrified as he was. John Wick, the _Babayaga_ had done something horrible, but he wasn't getting anything from the Compound. Only a quicker death. A death that was sure to come as he saw the guard from the front gate open the personal entrance, running in low with rifles raised. They could get him!

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**

Or they would have, if John Wick hadn't turned his riot shield around at the noise of the gate. Now they fired onto sheets of steel, ceramic, and heat casted plastic. They didn't haven't the weapons to crack the shield.

 ** _BANG! BANG!_**

They didn't have the time either.

Like some kind of demon that the _Chupacabra_ would be quelled at the sight at, the man had fallen down the shield and fired from the ground, twisting his gun and shooting up at an angle that no man should be able to accurately aim from, let alone so quickly.

And yet, the man had, and sent two bullets into the heads of the two men, killing everyone outside the Compound's walls. Everyone else was inside.

 ** _BANG!_**

" _MIERDA DE JODER!"_ The vigilante guard jumped at the sound of gunfire in the Command Center. He had his pistol raised and aimed behind him in an instant.

He found only his fellow guard lying on the floor, pistol in his mouth and blood shot eyes staring at the ceiling. The only guard left in the room, scowled down at the man.

" _Cobarde_."

 ** _BANG!_**

He turned back to the screens, looking for which of the other guards was shot now. He couldn't see anyone who was.

Because the cameras outside the building now showed only static.

" _Estoy jodido_." And he wouldn't even enjoy it.

* * *

A difficult part was done, but it wasn't the only hard part, only the first.

John kept his focus on the sound of gunfire and boots, both signs that he was being spied on. They were the quickest indicators of where to fire. With the outer perimeter seemingly secured, they would be fastest signs on where he was breached. He focused on that, that and his next task.

He holstered the pistol, two shots left in the magazine. Enough for now. He needed his other hand free. Reaching back into the car, keeping eyes on the building ahead of him, he grabbed the package he had procured from Yolanda. She called it the 'long-term customer reward'. John knew it was a farewell gift. Aside from the M16A2 rifle on his back, Yolanda had gifted the package to him.

He was surprised she would give away Semtex so easily, but that was beyond his focus. He could use it, and he would use it.

Primarily, on breaching the central doorway.

He kept the riot shield up as he moved, moving quickly at that. The car wouldn't reach the door, several steps up a porch. It would be inefficient and risky to ram his way in. He would be sitting in a car with at least a dozen guns on him if he had. Here, he would be mobile, armed, and controlled. Fights from cars only worked when he was with a partner. Here he was not.

He couldn't focus on what he didn't have. Only on what he did. And what John had was 200g of Semtex and the remote trigger for it. He focused on that.

The door in front of him, cameras blind, he slid the length of the molded plastic between the knobs of the doors, the quickest and dirtiest way of securing the explosives. The guards inside wouldn't know what he was doing, but they would not bare themselves against the door. It didn't matter, an explosion was too quick, destructive, and disorienting. It was even worse when unprepared.

He was focused on that. They weren't.

John quickly moved back to the car, raising the riot shield again as he eyed the door through the car's tinted windows. There were no soldiers firing at him now, but they only needed one shot to take him down, lucky or not. He had to focus on cover, now and as he moved forward.

Moving forward, of course, meant no hesitation. His hand searched through the lapels of his jacket, grabbing at the trigger for the Semtex. It was held in his grip in a familiar fashion, having being taught how to prepare it, mold it, and take cover from it. Most importantly, however, and what he focused on now, was how to use it.

 _Click_

 ** _BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!_**

The explosion ripped through the air just as John knew it would. Splinters of wood flew past him like bullets, several tearing into the tinted windows, cracking the thick paned glass no different than the fire from before. It spoke volumes that the Roanapur, the city beyond the compound walls, was filled with screaming and terror filled cries from the explosion. That made sense, but it wasn't worth his focus.

His was focused on himself and how, even prepared, John felt the shield he was holding jerk and give under the pressure of the explosion. Shifting it only a little from above his head, he felt the thick plated ceramic crack and begin to tear at the plastic lining. John dropped it with a thud to the ground. It wouldn't be worth anything now.

The M16 around his back was pulled over his shoulder, settling into his hands as one hand held the textured grip of the barrel's neck, the other shifting around the trigger. In his third stride, he lifted the gun up, releasing the neck of the gun to pull back the charging handle and preparing the first of many rounds into the chamber of the gun.

John walked up the shattered steps of the compound, ignoring the need to check the integrity of the building. It wasn't in his focus. He only noted how the Semtex had blown off the doors completely and enough of the supporting walls to leave a hole large enough for he car to effortlessly drive through. A part of his mind focused and noted the metal linings underneath, proof it was bunkered, but nothing more.

His focus wasn't on the building, it was on the men and goods inside of it. He took a step around the shattered wall.

 ** _BANG!BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_**

He took a round to his chest for his sureness.

John pushed back to cover quickly, ignoring the pain of the bullet until he was behind cover, leaving the metal and bullets to tear through the air next to him and wall behind him. That wasn't important right now. He had to focus on his wound.

 ** _BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANG! BANG! BANG! BANG BANGBANGBANGBANG BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG!_**

Touching it, wincing at it, it was superficial. The lining of his suit had taken most of the blow, enough to turn the would be deadly shot into an angry bruise later. A cracked rib at worse. He was alive though, anything else wasn't worth focus. He had to focus on how to enter as gunfire rained down on him.

The answer was the same was any other time he'd been forced to focus.

Ruin the focus of the enemy.

John moved quickly one of the many guard she had killed on his entry, having walked over him earlier. There was no need for weaponry before, but there was now. The Cartel commonly employed well-trained, and often ruthless mercenaries. Soldiers that enjoyed showing off their strength with appearance more than action.

 ** _BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG! BANG!BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG! BANG!_**

And grenades were an intimidating sight for anyone to behold. A guard would hardly ever use them, if they were doing their jobs properly, but John's focus wasn't on what would have been best for them. He focused on how to use what they had poorly judged to carry.

A hand grenade wouldn't clear the room, but it would give him a window to move. He focused on the sequence of events to make it effective. He had done it before. The pin flicked off the canister with his thumb, hand releasing the lever falling off a moment later.

 _Five_. He walked back to the edge of the all.

 ** _BANG!BANG! BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG_**

 _Four._ John made a show of lobbing the grenade through the enemy fire.

 ** _BANG! BANGBANGBANG!BANG BANGBANGBANG! BANGBANGBANG!_**

 _Three_. They hadn't noticed yet.

 _Two_. _"Bajar! Bajar!_ " Now they had.

 _One_. "It's a grenade!" Too late for them.

 _Zero_. **_BOOOOOM!_**

Far less deafening than the Semtex, but that wasn't for John to focus on. It had the effect he desired. The ripping of the explosion made the wall he leaned against shake, the men in side shouting orders in broken English and fluent Spanish. All sounds that came from the other side of the wall.

But no bullets.

 _Minus Two_. John entered the room before the first whiff of smoke cleared, M16 raised, and eyes on the soldiers ducking for cover. He noted their positions quickly, focusing on who was where. Eye down the black sights of the rifle, he counted them.

One on the west bank of the stairs. **_BANG!_** Two down a hallway extending in line with the main doorway. **_BANG! BANG!_** The area where the grenade had exploded was clear, any hostiles either in cover or dead, the latter was preferred. There were more shooters than four.

John swiveled to the opposite perpendicular the entrance, a hallway wrapping about the exterior of the building. He noted the necessity for such a design in safehouses, keeping nay occupied rooms from open windows, but that was beyond his focus.

He was focused on the recovering guard. **_BANG!_** Until he fell back with a jerk to his neck. John focused on the signs of enemies, many of them recovering in the central chamber behind him, enough to draw concern. He had no cover in a barren hallway. He had to keep moving down the halls. There was another camera up ahead. **_BANG!_** Now there wasn't.

His feet were swift and his mind sharp, focusing on the sound of approaching enemies, noting the closeness of the soldiers recovering behind him. They were running down the stairs, shouting likely orders to shoot on site.

" _Morir Ca-!_ " **_BANG!_** John shot the moment another soldier rounded the corner. The rifled bullet tore through his head, ruining an otherwise young face. A novice to the group, likely, shouting before shooting. That was beyond John's focus.

He focused on cover, and he saw a door. It would be locked, doubtlessly. He had to remain focused on his time. There was precious little of it to spare.

 ** _BANG BANG BANG!_**

His bullets tore through the handle on the third shot, affirming his idea it was reinforced. His boot connected with the door the next moment, sending it swinging inward. His gun remained raised, checking for hostiles as he entered quickly. There were none. It was an empty room, a dummy. Common in bunkers. If it was something else, it didn't matter.

He had to focus on the hostiles.

"There he is! _Disparale!_ " John turned to the voice, seeing more hostiles running down the corridor. They had their guns lowered as they took to cover. **_BANG BANG BANG!_** He didn't.

The room was a tomb if he entered it without preparation. He focused on that. He focused on how to turn it into a trap for those around him. He knew how, the same way he had when he helped Vigo take New York. IT began by taking the body of the young recruit he had killed.

The Cuban was heavy with ammunition and firearms, but John was focused and had to move. The boy left a bloody trail beneath him as his boots slid across the floor. He entered with an unceremonious flop. That was fine for John. The dead didn't feel, and he didn't focus on what wasn't important. What was important was the ammunition and tools the boy had.

A knife, large and serrated, kept in a vertical chest sheath. Three sets of fragmentation grenades, five second pins based upon their size. Rifle ammunition from a modified gun he didn't recognize, but likely would work for the M16. The 5.56mm ammo was very versatile. But that didn't matter right now, not why it was versatile. Only that he could use the spare clip.

John shut the door, letting the room fall into darkness. He pushed the body of the dead guard to its edge, heavy body and gear holding it shut. It wouldn't last past a single kick, but that was the point.

He could heard shouts from behind the door, more men coming, more cover being taken. Leaving now would mean death. They had to come first, and he had to make sure his trap was ready. When it went off, he had to focus on escaping the room. John lifted one of the spare grenades up to the body of the young guard, pushing it until it was wedged between the thick vest he wore and the damaged wall.

It was hardly meant to last, and that was the point. Any good motion would jostle the grenade free. He wouldn't be near it. The enemy hostiles would. Focusing on the plan reminded him of what it was called by Vigo later. The fish out of the barrel. It was a stupid name.

But that didn't matter. _Click_. Only the plan itself mattered.

The pin was pulled as John walked away, but the level was tight against its shell. A good kick and it would be free.

 _THUD_

Like clockwork, the blow came to the door. It pushed the body of the guard forward, but not enough. Only enough for John to hear the men outside screaming, deciding whether to breach, run, or bomb. Their words didn't matter, and neither did their safety. Their indecisiveness was his benefit, but only if the level fell from the grenade.

 _THUD_ _Chink_

The door was forced open by the strike, and the grenade rolled out with it. _Five_

John watched from the back of the room, M16 raised and waiting for them to enter. They hadn't noticed yet. _Four_

A rifle peeked through the opening, looking for him before they breached. Common tactic when defending a base, looking for trapped hostiles. _Three_

But they were focusing on the wrong area, and that was why they wouldn't survive. _Two_

" _Bajar! Bajar!_ " Now they had noticed. _One_.

Too late for them. _Zero_.

 ** _BOOOOOOOOMMMM!_**

John raised his shoulder as the explosion tore through the exterior of the room. What little was left of the door from the kicking and shooting was blown off of its hinges, shredded timber and metal whipping through the air. Debris hit him like leaves in a storm, slapping against this suit and bringing a grunt of pain from him when it hit his bullet wound. That wasn't important, so he ignored it.

He focused on the smoke and desecrated corpse at the front of the room, blood and gore painting the walls in a manner that only the battle hardened could ignore. There was no material worn by the dead soldier or any of the other guards to resist the immediate force of the fragmentation grenade or the frags that flew off of it. The proximity, the power, and their inability to focus made the scene.

A painted wall, floor, and ceiling of gore, intestines, teeth, and whatever else the Cubans were made of. John could ignore it, by focusing on the enemies that were alive.

He moved quickly to the now open wall, M16A2 raised and looking for the obvious lines of fire. The gornas of disorientation, coupled with the far of cries and orders. He didn't have long. He had to remain focused.

Focused on the first guard he saw outside the room, braced against the wall with his head in his hands. **_BANG!_** He fell to the floor wetly. John turned at an enraged scream, seeing another Cuban trying to lift his rifle with a single torn arm. **_BANG!_** The explosion of his head ruined the chance. There was another camera up ahead. **_BANG!_** Now there wasn't.

John whipped around, following the exterior wall away from the central chamber. He was focused on hostiles, so he immediately saw the foot peeking out from the bottom of the wall corner. An inexperience or poorly prepared soldier looking for an ambush.

 ** _BANG!_** The guard gave a scream as his foot was blown off. He fell, exposed and out of cover. **_BANG!_** His body jerked as the bullet flew through his head. The knife he was holding clattered to the floor.

John braced the wall, peeking around cover and looking for any other hostiles. None heard and none seen. He took the moment to recover, short as it was. Letting a near empty clip fall from his M16A2, unable to imagine a proper scenario he could afford to waste time. Slapping the extra clip into place, pulling back and releasing the charging handle and ensuring a bullet was primed in the chamber.

He looked out down the hallway again, double checking to ensure it was free.

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_** It was not.

" _Demono! Diablo!_ " Those insults he understood, even if they were the only high sign he needed. John snuck around the corner, rifle raised. **_BANG!_** The soldier died mid curse, falling over wetly. John saw the barrel of a gun come out of another door. He ducked back into cover before it could fire.

 ** _BANG! BANGBANGBANG! BANG!_** Burst shots, cover fire, enough to keep him pinned. It was obvious why, only requiring a bit of focus. The longer he remained pinned, the longer he refused to move, the more time the other soldiers would have to flank him. He couldn't afford that.

John pulled back his leg, letting gravity pull him to the floor. When he was close enough, he pushed, sliding out at ground level with the M16 aimed down the hall. He found the guard easily, adjusting to shoot him. **_BANG!_** John was faster.

He stood up as the guard fell down, preparing quickly to move. **_BANG BANG BANG!_** Instead, he grunted in pain.

The cursed man pushed himself back to cover, raising his arms around his head for protection and ignoring the pain that stabbed at his side. That wasn't important now, not until he was in cover. And once in cover, he lowered his arms and clenched his teeth. The ceramic weaving of his suit had taken the bullets again, but he could already feel that the thread had done all that it could.

He lifted and whipped his arm, letting the wave of the action flip his jacket. The bullets dislodged from the fabric and skittered across the ground, revealing the cracked and holed fabric beneath. Weak points that any stray shot could easily pass through. Simply, an opening he now had to focus on covering.

 ** _BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG_**

Covering like the covering fire. John focused on that, far more important than his wounds for now, superficial or not. He needed to ascertain where the guard had come from, the other shooter that he had missed. If it was a lack of focus that nearly cost him his life, then he would be dead before he reached the compound center.

His finger flicked the mode setting of the M16, turning it from semi-automatic to automatic. **_BANGBANGBANG! BANGBANGBANG!_** Trained fingers kept the gun into a bursting fire, firing around the corner without his eyes. It was a horrible way to shoot to kill, but an excellent way to distract and disrupt a hostile force.

John trained his head around the corner after the fire, spying a pair of guards behind an upturned table. A table that was lined with lead, showing its reinforcement. Preparation for an assault. Another guard was pulling back into the cover of a hallway. It answered John's question. But the guards were recovering.

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG BANGBANGBANG_**

John ducked back into cover, focusing on the reload of the rifle, ignoring the plaster, wood, and strips of metal that blew past him with the enemy fire. That wasn't important, not at this second. What was important were the placement of the enemy combatants. He had to focus on that.

Two down the hall, at minimum. Several approaching from the main entrance, cautionary but unknown in number. They were wary of him, a benefit and deficit. It made their approach slow, which gave him time, but it meant surprise would be difficult, making their numbers a greater advantage. He needed them to stop approaching, long enough for him to take down the guards suppressing his cover.

John grabbed another grenade from his jacket, the second from the youngest appearing guard he had killed. _Click_ the pin flew off with an extension of his thumb, the lever soon with it. He tossed it over his shoulder, counting carefully.

 _Five_. Counting as he saw the green pineapple green fragmentation grenade settle only a few yards from him.

 _Four. **BANGBANBGBANG BANG BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG**_ The suppressing fire was still present.

 _Three_. He didn't have long until the other guards began to round the corner on him. He needed to act soon.

 _Two._ **_BANG! BANG! BANG!_** He _wasted_ bullets to warn the approaching soldiers against hurrying to him. They knew he was deadly, and they would slow. Them slowing meant he had time.

 _One_. And it was time to move.

Move as he stepped out of cover. Move as he kept his rifle raised and aimed at the two heavily bunkered guards down the hallway.

 _Zero_. **_BOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!_** And ignoring the explosion that ripped behind him.

It was loud enough, sudden enough, and damning enough to shake the building, throwing off the barrage of bullets the guards had been laying down the hall. It was the precious window he needed, now exposed to them.

 ** _BANG!_** The first guard fell over without any effort. He hit the table he took as cover before flopping behind hit. The last tried to spin back to cover. **_BANG!_** A bullet slammed into his shoulder, blowing it out and forcing him to lean into the pain. **_BANG!_** John ended it with a bullet to the back of his head. And there was another camera up ahead. **_BANG!_** Now there wasn't.

He didn't focus on them now. Dead guards didn't matter, not until he needed more munitions. Not while he was being followed so closely. There was still shouting behind him. The grenade had slowed, but it hadn't stopped. There were more guards ahead, he knew there would be.

John knew he had to keep moving, but he couldn't afford to risk being ambushed from behind during a lapse in his focus, no matter how small. He had to focus on how to get rid of the guards behind him. He had to focus on how to make a trap.

With the last grenade from the dead guard, and a few extra from the fresh corpses, there was an idea to be had. Similar to before, but different. Not a breach, but a net. And he had the tools for it. He only needed to stay focused, and then he would have the time.

 _Click_. The pin was pulled from his last grenade, just in time as he pulled back the arm of one of the soldiers he had killed. He shoved it into the underarm of the man, weaving into his vest. When it was in place, carefully, John turned the man back over, as if he were never touched. The grenade would remain in place, he knew that. It would hold until he was turned over to be checked, as any soldier in the field would do for an ally.

Mercenaries were soldiers, loyal to cash and each other. They would check their friend, John knew this, because he focused on it. Just as he focused on what he could take from the man. It came down to only another spare magazine. No grenades to be found or knives needed. It was all he needed.

He had to move.

He ignored the screaming that now permeated the reinforced walls of the compound. They were looking for him, only knowing so far as the direction he was moving in, from the gore he left behind and cameras that he had destroyed. If they were focused, they would know the path he was taking. He knew the path he was taking, and he had never set foot in the compound before.

The Cartel safehouse was built to guard their trade routes, and nothing else. It was why the external walls were hallways, and not rooms with views. It was why everything was et up to make the defense from the inside as viable as possible, reinforcing the walls, tables, and doors. It was that knowledge, focusing on it, that told John were to go.

Because the safehouse design meant that the spare stairway up would be located in the center of the building, a secondary set to the same kind he had found in the main entrance. And it would be from a higher location he would find the Command Center. It was why he was moving down the halls quickly, with a gun raised and ears open. There was another camera up ahead. **_BANG!_** Now there wasn't.

" _Diablo!_ There's the _diablo!_ " John heard a guard shout down a hallway he passed. He kept moving until he was behind cover. "Fire at-!" **_BANG!_** The order wasn't for him, but John complied nonetheless. The guard fell, revealing a trio of others ducking for cover. **_BANG! BANG!_** Two made it, the last screaming as his chest was shot before his head followed suit.

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**

John turned back to cover and checked his magazine as more bullets tore past him. They shot, and only shot, at him. It was all they could do. He focused on that, what they were allowed to do. They were allowed to shoot to kill, to maim, and likely to torture. But they were not allowed to risk ruining the supports of the compound itself.

Explosions, specifically those from fragmentation grenades, had the capabilities of ruining the supports and information within the facility. John had no such concerns, least before he reached the desired location. The Cartel mercenaries, however, likely had no such freedoms, not until orders were given.

 ** _BOOOOOOMM!_** The explosion went off without John grabbing a grenade. He didn't focus on that. He focused on what the explosion did.

It stopped the hostile fire, giving him a chance to push out of cover. **_BANG! BANG!_** To shoot the foot out from one guard before threading a bullet through his ears. The other guard wasn't exposed, but John was approaching faster than the mercenary could be prepared for, without focus that was. It gave the murderer time to grab for his knife. _SHINK!_ And stab it around the corner and into the unprepared soldier around its edge.

John grabbed the handle of the gun from the gurgling guard, ignoring the blood that spilled from his throat. Close quarters mean using weapons like knives. It was easier to dodge gunfire when the barrel was in arms reach. He didn't focus on that. He focused on the explosion.

The trap he had set previously must have worked. He could not tell how many mercenaries, if any, were harmed or killed by the explosion. He could only be sure it would make their approach delayed by some degree. How much, he still could not be certain.

That wasn't important. He had to remain focused on moving forward to the stairs, to the command center. There, he would be able to access the data files and room. It was the plan he was focused on carrying out. It would work.

Only if his deal with the Lagoon Company held, and they were doing their part.

* * *

"Mother _Fucker!_ " **_BANGBANG!_** Revy's pistols tore through the air in tandem. One slammed into the far wall, sending concrete and dust into the air. The other slammed into the armored torso of a Cartel mob guard, taking the sudden loss of breath as a heads up to retreat. " _Pussy!_ " Revy made her opinion of the action obvious.

On an ordinary day, she would have charged the hall with her Cutlasses raised, ready to jump past the thin corner separating the dumb bastard between life and death. The guards were armed with assault rifles, automatic fire, leading to wide inaccuracy. It meant that she'd be able to put two in his head before he'd miss his third shot. At the moment though, that would've been a bad idea down three categories, each more piss off annoying than the next.

One, they weren't storming their way _out_ of some bad deal. They were holding themselves up at the _front_ of a fucking barracks. Holding off with a table flipped over, guarding the front door like cheap police tape, even if it was armored through like every other square freaking inch of the place.

Two, the Cartel barracks had, _apparently_ , a hell of a lot more people inside than a head count of rooms showed off. Already ten bodies down and there were still voices yelling inside about having to get past _her_ to get to the cars. That wasn't going to happen, meaning that there would be _plenty_ of more bodies to put to the ground.

And third, most piss off annoying of all, her _partner_ -

"I got grenades ready," Rock yelled behind her, just about lying on the ground and ducking behind the table with her. "I'll pass them to you when you need them."

-decided that the sidelines were just too comfortable for him this time.

"Just put 'em down and _get back in the car, Rock!_ " She felt like a fucking American soccer mom right now, yelling at her _spoiled brat_ of a kid wanting to do grown up things. Revy didn't let an inch of her snarl fade. "All I need is _one dumb mother fucker_ threading a bullet and hitting you for this to go to complete shit!"

"I'll be okay! We've been through worse!" Every dumbass mother fucker on the _planet_ said that right before they got made one with the dirt and lead that murdered them! **_BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_** And wouldn't you know it? The world was trying to make sure it had a perfect fucking track record when it came to that!

Revy about _slammed_ her back into the reinforced table that was their cover. The Buddha in the bay must have stolen a glance at them for the thing to be holding out as well as it had, even if she could literally see the indents of the bullets by now. That wasn't what bothered her though.

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_** What bothered her was that she was _watching_ the enemy fire try and tear through the table and nail Rock to a cross! As much of a shit head as he was right now, she was _not_ going to lose him to some mook and a bastard's bad plan! Even if the bastard was the most badass bastard in the history of gunslingers!

"You haven't been through worse till you've been _vented_ Rock!" She yelled back at him as bullets flew over head **_BANGBANG_** and she kept them honest with a barrage of her own. She was _damn_ glad she got the extended magazines earlier, or else this would have been a colossal fuckup on all sides. "And if you do that, I'll follow you back into hell just so I can drop you on the _devil's cock_!"

At least the fucking bastard knew better than to laugh at her right now. **_BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_** The bullets were probably helping. But the bastard wasn't running, so they weren't helping enough!

"You _seriously_ gotta get outta here Rock!" Revy yelled again. **_BANG_**. Even as she fired a single shot over the back of her head. No use risking brain matter for _every_ round. Stray was as good as s dead shot if it hit. "Cause with your shithole luck, you'll probably get yourself tied up and kidnapped again. _You already hit your quota with the fucking Babayaga!_ "

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**. She reached over the table and let loose a barrage. Revy felt the wood groan underneath her, probably from how hard she was pushing her knee into it for support. That, or it was just nervous about her fucking it as hard as she was going to fuck the Cartel boys with her Cutlasses. Whole new meaning of hard as steel!

"I know!" He shouted back. **_BANGBANGBANGBANG_** Just in time for the Cartel bastards to grow their balls back. Revy cursed a storm as she pushed herself down, waiting for the lull in the fire to whip her head up.

 ** _BANG!_** She never got it. Not when another bullet tore through the air above her like lightning, stopping the barrage from down the hall. She _groaned_ at what that meant.

"But we're okay, because Eda is backing us up." Rock sounded _too damn pleased_ with himself. It was her fucking _job_ as his gun to remind him why that was a bad idea, because if he didn't know where to shoot, then they were screwed like whores when the pirates landed.

"I'll _never_ call a _five-hundred-a-head payment_ an okay thing _Rock!_ " Revy roared at him, even as bullets began to tear above them again. She couldn't risk the blonde bitch snagging another half kay from them!

 ** _BANGBANG_** Revy shot twice before her eyes were on the target. She saw the brown mother fucker dipping back into cover. **_BANG_** Too slow! His leg fell out underneath him, letting him sidle back like a floundering fish! **_BANGBANGBANGBANG_**! Revy licked bloody teeth as the man wailed at his destroyed leg. That fucker wasn't coming out anytime soon.

"It was necessary Revy!" Rock shouted next to her, even if he was staying safe behind cover. Least he wasn't screaming like the first time he'd been in a shoot-out. Small blessings in a damned city, the pirate supposed. "We'd be killed by now without her support!"

 ** _BANG!_** And like he gave the bitch a signal, another bullet tore through the air. Revy heard glass shatter some stories above them. _SPLAT!_ She turned and saw the broken bloody corpse of what probably used to be some dickless Cuban running around. She clicked her tongue.

"I'd rather have _Dutch_ on my back than the bitch dressed in black!" She was _not_ letting up on this. "Least the boss knows how to take care of us without scamming cash from kills!"

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**

Automatic fire sprayed the air above them, making Revy nearly crack a tooth as she grit her jaw. Give her walnut and she'd _love_ to turn it into paste. Maybe give Rock _something_ to be afraid of when it came to her. Clearly threats and guns weren't doing the trick anymore!

"He's busy and you know that!" She fucking well did, and she was staring at the man who _made_ him busy! "Benny is the best person we know when it comes to sabotaging cars, and Dutch isn't going to let anyone else watch his men except himself." She hated his logic, she really did.

 ** _BANGBANG!_** Enough to shoot a pair of shots from the Cutlasses above her head, keeping the assholes beyond the walls honest. They were pinned just inside their base, but they weren't fucked until she was pantless and Rock was neutered.

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**

 ** _BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_**

Revy changed her mind. They were fucked. Fucked harder than kids sold to saps in the Big Apple.

"There is no _fucking way_ this could possibly be any more _fucked up_ of a situation!" She screamed as she twisted her arm, shooting at the corner some Joe-suck-and-blow was hiding behind. She couldn't hit shit so long as he was acting like a pansy! Didn't help that he had the gang around him like they were looking for a fucking. Fuckers didn't even realize they were going to be on the opposite end!

"Actually, it could probably we worse." Revy was _tempted_ to shoot Rock just for the words. But that would mean wasting the ammo she was dedicated to venting the bastards' collective throats and chests with. She perished the thought, for a second, when she felt the ribbed contour of a grenade get pushed to her back.

Her thumb, trained with gunfights a plenty, flicked the safety of her Cutlass before letting it drop to swing from her finger. She reached back and palmed the grenade the Jap was pushing at her _Click_ thumbing off the pin and letting the lever clatter to the floor beneath her. She still didn't stop shooting with her other Cutlass, not until it started clicking with blanks.

By the time that had happened, she had already lobbed the grenade down the hall, watching it roll around the corner. She grinned as she saw it fly back out from cover, probably with one of the guards having kicked it away from him.

 ** _BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!_** Revy held the table she was braced against as the explosion went off.

A quick glance showed her the blood and carnage that once upon a _bloody time_ was a body painting the walls and ceiling, mixed like a smoothie with the vests and cargo pants of the Cartel guards. It would've made for a pretty sick painting.

 ** _BANG! BANGBANGBANG! BANGBANG!_** If there still wasn't gunfire.

"Fucking hell!" Revy yelled as she fell back into cover.

She scowled hard, switching back off the safety of her Cutlass, even as she ejected the empty mags and accepted the spares from Rock's steady hands. She slapped them into place as bullets tore into the reinforced table behind her. It wouldn't last much longer now. Just enough time to curse out her _dumbass_ of a partner!

"No Rock!" She yelled at him, even as the Jap blinked at her more than the gunfire ripping over his head. "Unless I was _fucking naked_ and literally _strapped to a fucking foot long dildo_ , this situation could _not_ be more _fucked!_ " She yelled as she pushed herself up with her good leg.

 ** _BANGBANG! BANGBANG!_** She got one of them, even if the bastard fell back into cover with the shots. ** _BANGBANG!_** The other avoided her, but even the fucking spics weren't dumbasses enough to shoot at her while she was shooting at them. They were drug dealers, not Nazis, several dozen degrees difference of stupidity there.

"C'mon father fucker!" Revy yelled out again, whipping her head till sweat flung from her long pony tail. "I got places to be and you've got a grave to shit in!" **_BANGBANGBANGBANG_** And maybe she'd go deaf in the process.

 _CHINGCHING_ But not before she missed the click of empty magazines. She ducked back into cover, twisting until her bare back was rubbing against the indents of the bullet holes. They had maybe another full auto round aimed at them before the table gave out. Not much time then.

"Rock, ammo." She spoke out, letting the empty mags hit the floor as they slid from her Cutlasses. She held up her guns, waiting. Nothing came. "Rock!" She shouted her partners name.

She looked over, seeing him twisting his head back and forth, even with a pair of her ammo cartridges in his hand. The fuck was wrong with him? In a fire fight, there was usually a good guess.

"What? You get hit?" Revy asked Rock, watching her partner as he kept the screwed expression on his face. "Crotch get fucked then? Bad hit of a drug? What is it?" Couldn't be the drugs. Rock was too much of a pussy to try anything stronger than a cigarette.

"I'm watching people get turned to cheese, dummies, and putty, but that image alone is going to stick with me more."

Revy turned her guns on him, wishing she had a spare bullet in the chamber. The released and exposed holes told her otherwise. Rock just looked at her like _she_ was the crazy one. The dumb motherfucker was either stupidly lucky or honest to god blessed.

Considering his penchant for being kidnapped, definitely the latter.

"Rock, I'm going to tell you this once." **_BANGBANGBANGBANG_** Over automatic gunfire, too. Awesome, guess the bastards were back. Had to make this quick then. "If we live through this and you manage to piss me off _anymore_ than what your _Fucking F-Grade_ plan has done, then I'll see to it that _you're_ the one who's livin' up to that image in front of Big Sis herself!"

She managed to get a bit of a choke out of him with that. Wasn't even from the gunsmoke. Revy let her mouth tick up in satisfaction at that.

 ** _BANG!_** Her eyes narrowed a moment later after the tell-tale sound of the Eda Bitch's sniper ripped through the air again. Great, she was going on five kay easy now, and that was out of pocket.

Rock's pocket, but still, he was her partner, which meant she wasn't keeping pace.

"Fuck around later," Revy finished. "Ammo now. I got shit eaters to neuter." If she hit the tiny balls these bastards had with her weapons, she'd demand a raise out of Dutch later.

Rock didn't miss the action she needed. He lifted and slammed a pair of magazines into her Cutlasses with practiced better be well practiced, considering the number of shoot outs they had gotten into Maybe not this bad, but hey, beggars weren't choosers.

Not until they were next to someone begging for more.

"You think the plan is working?" Revy just about screwed all her promises and shot Rock right there. Idiocy could only go so far into partnership before it was worthless. **_BANGBANGBANG_** She ducked her head, staring Rock in the face, as bullets tore above them. "I mean, I know Benny and Dutch are doing their part, but… do you think John can handle his?"

Oh, was _that_ the fucker he was worried for? Revy would have laughed in his face if she wasn't getting ready to do the same to the Cartel boss deep in the barracks later on. She'd use her breath for something much more gratifying.

"Rock, _we_ are being shot to the _shithole_ of Davy Jones by a punch of Coke heads that think Spanish is the greatest fucking language in the world!" And they were fucking morons for thinking it! "If we're getting' shot at like this, I'd bet my ass to a pimp that John's goin' through something even _fucking worse!_ "

 ** _BANGBANG!_** Revy got up and shot over the armored table as she yelled that. She grinned sharkily as another Cartel Mercenary fell. Best sight in the world right now. Rock kept himself small next to her, probably the only smart thing he'd done all day.

"Least he better be," Revy remarked as she got back behind the desk, waving her Cutlass to wherever the fuck the fake nun was camping out at. "Or else I'm gonna have to use you to get us another Marker."

Rock laughed like it was a joke. Her partner, the fucker, was sharp as Draganov bullets mid-flight, but sometimes the fucker just didn't know when to quit.

* * *

John was right about the stairs. He knew his focus would pay off for it. But that only meant he had to find the Command Room now. That was the most important find next.

Any bunker reinforced as this would not leave their most valuable room, filled with information, guns, or other forms of currency, to be easily unlockable. It would have a gate, a keypad, or a failsafe like a safe room. Finding it first would be worthless now. Any mercenary, focused to their task, would have shut it by now. But a Command Center, likely, would have the means to enter.

 ** _BANG!_** He shot out with the M16, ducking back into cover before the guard he had vented fell to the ground. Spanish curses filled the air, but he ignored them. **_BANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANGBANG_** , the ripping sound of enemy fire made it easy. Neither were important right now. They were only obstacles. And obstacles meant nothing when he was focused on his task. And there was another camera up ahead. **_BANG!_** Now there wasn't.

John only had to count the bullets. **_BANGBANGBANG_** The number of guards firing at him. **_BANGBANGBANBANGBANG_**. And the separation between the flying steel. **_BANGBANGBANGB_**. That gave him the opening he needed.

He bent out of cover, M16 raised before either of the Cartel mercenaries could duck back into their corners. **_BANG!_** He put a bullet clean through one of their heads, making the other jump. It exposed a shoulder. **_BANG!_** John shot at it, making the man scream and fall over. John was already moving down the hall as he aimed for the head. _CHINK!_ And made nothing.

Without a thought, his focus high, John ran at the fallen guard. The Cuban turned with his rifle swinging with a dead arm to shoot John. He was on him faster, serrated knife raised and plunging down in the same time his foot kicked away the barrel of the gun. _SHINK!_ It cleaned through the man's neck, leaving only a line of blood across the floor and wall.

It was good, but he had to focus. His hand grabbed at the sapre ammo the man had, palming a grenade in the same time. He rapidly rearmed the M16, knowing he didn't have time to check for the magazine size before continuing. He could count on 32 bullets, but that would be it. Anymore would be a risk.

And there was another camera up ahead. **_BANG!_** Now there wasn't. That easily made twenty now. There would be many more near the Safe Room and Command Center.

John got to his feet with the rifle raised, letting the barrel follow his eyes, but seeing nothing worth shooting. He had to keep moving. Holding still in an enemy compound was death. He had learned that quickly in the work of assassins.

Quick as he moved, he still listened. And it was because he was listening he knew to stop. And it was because he was listening that he heard the enemy coming. Or, more appropriately, focusing on where the voices were coming from, were the enemy was waiting.

John heard the Hispanic whispering from down the hall, focusing on it for a moment. He needed to listen for the number of soldiers, the number of men he would kill. Instead, he heard something else interesting.

 _BSHHHHHHHH_ It was not a sound he expected to hear inside an enemy compound, a safehouse for that matter. John realized he may have been incorrect before, or the Cartel was now desperate enough to result to destructive measures.

He knew of no other reasons, even focusing on the issue, as to why they would be preparing an RPG for him.

There would be little chance to survive a blast, especially in enclosed halls. The shockwave, heat, or fragmentation could all kill him alone, the threading of his suit too worn. To many others, it would be a death sentence to even think of moving down the hall.

But John had no other choice. He had to move forward. He had to focus.

Focus on how there would be no auxiliary or covering fire next to the RPG, not without risking the other mercenaries in the tight halls. The blowback would kill them. The soldier would shoot as soon as he believed John was close enough, an action he needed to see john to be sure of, now that he had shot out all the cameras he had seen.

That meant doing something dangerous, but danger was what was necessary. He had to focus on efficiency, not safety. Safety was secondary to a completion of his task. He had to stay focused on that.

He flung the M16 over his shoulder, too slow to aim and fire in the cramped halls. Slower than a simple Takarov pistol, with the firepower necessary to shot through what he had to. Not armor, not flesh, but a thin layer of ceramic and polymers. That was all he needed, a lot of force in a small area.

John breathed once, twice, then turned the corner.

He took one look forward, the span of a blink of an eye. With his focus, it was enough to see the man nealed at the end of the hall, an RPG system over his shoulder. A back window was open to reduce the blowback, there were no visible soldiers beside him, but the missile-like weaponry was ready to fire.

 ** _BANG!_** John fired first.

 ** _BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!_** He ducked back into cover. Too slow to avoid spare shrapnel from tearing into his jacket and pants, the weaving doing little for the weighty steel. It did nothing for the vibration of air that and heat of the vacuum that ripped by him. It was far better than an explosion in his face.

The building shook with the explosion, leading John to raise the ends of his jacket in a hope to keep any more projectiles from doing him harm. It was unnecessary, as nothing more hit him. It was worthless to check on the corpses that were at the center of the explosion.

He was injured from fifty feet away and in specialized armor. They were dead. He had to move on.

He moved to the only other room on the floor, one of two, that he had not yet entered. The door was openg, perhaps blown open, and the camera that were once mounted externally ripped from the ceiling with char marks left behind. The explosion of the PRG did not spare them. There was nothing to protect them.

John kept the Takarov pistol raised as he pushed the door open, checking the adjacent wall before spinning through the room, clearing it as he had hundreds of other buildings through is career. It was became too clear through the quick sweep that this was the command center.

With dozens of monitors lining the walls, a pair of radio systems for close range and far distant EMF capabilities, and a slightly above average bolting system to the door. It was the area where the commands were given. But the door was blown open by friendly fire, initiated by John, and the only person capable of giving orders wasn't capable of it anymore.

John found a body, but not one that was a threat.

There was soldier on the ground, one he hadn't shot. He knew he hadn't, because he was focused on the wound. There was too much gunpowder around the hole for it to be his, too low caliber to have come from the M16A2. It made the implication obvious. Perhaps he was a coward, but John was not known to offer mercy to the cowardly.

They weren't worth his focus. The saferoom was. The saferoom, located in the only part of the compound he hadn't shot up yet. Unintentional, truthfully, but perhaps an well-devised, if poorly executed, plan on the Cartel's part. Attempt to lead him down the corridors snaking about the compound, all to wear him out or kill him before he reached the room.

It was clever, but it had failed. Now he knew where to go. And looking at the desk, focusing for the obvious, John knew how to get it in.

His hands ghosted over the keypads, controlling the now broken monitors and surveillance system. He moved over the radio comms, ignoring the static that filled the radio head now. He ignored the blood that coated them all. None of that was important, beyond his focus.

The only focus John had was the depressive switch located on the underside of the table. He pressed it, rewarded with nothing for now. He didn't expect anything, not yet.

 _Chi-CHINK!_ John hit the Charging handle of the M16 again, rewarded with the click of a round placing itself in the chamber. There may not be a need for it, not with the bodies he had filled the halls with an the distraction the Lagoon Company was placing at the Barracks.

That did not mean he had time to waste. He had to focus.

His boots clicked across the floor and splashed the already collecting pools of blood from the fallen guards. He had the magazines he needed, as well as the few fragmentations necessary. Even as he gathered them, he wasn't confident that he would need them.

There were no more guards shooting at him, no one else he could hear preparing for him. The command center was taken, dozens upon dozens of bodies lining the building within and without, and not to mention the distraction the Lagoon company had surely caused at their barracks now. That was to speak little of how he had cleared the totality of the compound by his measurements, the recon he had done making him confident there was little more of the building to see.

Unless there was a bunker beneath the already heavily armored building holding more solders and mercenaries, the bodies that lined the now bloody halls were likely all the resistance that he had had to worry about. The RPG was perhaps the biggest clue that he was safe, for now. Perhaps.

A last ditch effort with all other comrades dead, the only way to possibly stop him, slim as it was, but one that would only risk the lives of comrades if fired too early. The last ditch effort, as it were.

And it had failed. His focus told him they were all dead, and he was still alive.

And standing in front of the heavily armored door, propped open no doubt by the button he had depressed in the command room, John knew that there were no other guards left.

None except for the one terrified soldier waiting inside for him.

Perhaps it was dumb luck on the part of the soldier, perhaps it was misfortune on his own, but whichever the reason, an unfortunate set of circumstance made the man's position precarious. Being inside the room with the information, the system and documents mean to be traded for his escape, John could not risk an explosion or fire-fight. Either would risk ruining the goods.

So, once more, perhaps for the last time in Roanapur, he had to keep his focus, keep it high, and take out a man waiting for him before he even knew he was there. John raised his foot up to the door's height.

 _BANG! **BANG!**_ He shot forward in the same motion he kicked the door forward. A soldier fell backwards before the door hit the inner wall, or John set his foot down.

And when it did, it let him survey the room proper. No other guards were present, not even bodies on the ground. A room that was an office, or disguised to be that way, but was in the middle of being raided when he entered. Perhaps they were making room to destroy it or move, but deciding against it with the PRG instead. Just as likely were the realizing there was no exit they could guarantee safety, not with the car out front, a car he had wired to explode. None of that mattered. It was all guessing where guesses didn't matter.

The only thing that mattered was what was in front of him. And that was some, at least just some, of the information for the Cartel. Maps, logs, receipts, remarks, all of it. All in a language he only knew words for, but nearly all there. And so much more around him.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect. _Almost_ so perfect. It wasn't quite there yet. He still needed to do two things. And they could be done in tandem.

He lifted the phone to his ear for the first, flipping it as he hit the memorized numbers, eyes downward. He began to look for the safe so he could do the second. For a room in a bunker and safehouse such as this would have a safe. The kind he was not sure, but surely a safe, even if it was with just a key.

The phone hummed in John's ear as he found the safe across the room, behind a set of bookcases pushed off the wall. Perhaps it was the last act of the mercenary to secure some form of blackmail to ensure his own life from the Cartel, should he have escaped. Maybe it was meant to be a bargain with John, it didn't matter which. Panic it was then. The guard's final detriment to John's latest rare benefit.

He began to pick up sheets of the papers and documents, placing them in the two-by-two safe. It was quick and easy, easier than he expected, but still a race against time.

" _Speak_." The voice in his ear told him time was short. " _Speak now or be hunted_."

"Let me speak to Balalaika," John answered simply, unwavering. Whomever he was speaking to, Boris perhaps, didn't matter. They would recognize him. And the quick flurry of motion and movement on the other end of the call was proof of it. They were exchanging the phone as he was moving documents. No need to wait for one over the other.

The longer he waited, the more likely he was to be compromised by someone else, greedy or curious, in Roanapur.

" _John? Is that you?_ " Balalaika's sickly sweet voice rolled over the phone. Muffled with static, he could hear the jeer in her voice. " _It isn't like you to call while you work. And we both know how busy you have been, hunting my men and disrupting my town._ " Poor jeers at that. She was no Viggo, no old friend turned enemy. Just a client for a time and a hunter now.

"I know you're looking for me," John focused on what to say to make the conversation fast. He didn't want to speak to her long. He couldn't afford it. "I know you're always looking for a challenge."

" _Very sure of yourself, aren't you John?_ " She continued to pressure him. John continued to move papers. " _I will admit you are more unique amongst the killers and sycophants I've had to kill over the years. I'm not sure if you qualify for a challenge._ " He wasn't a killer from Roanapur. He wouldn't fall for baits to his pride. He had none to be insulted for.

"I've taken the Cartel Safehouse." She didn't respond on the other end. Evidence enough she was listening. "All their men are dead. Their information storage is secure. There is many ten minutes before another gang risks coming out to search the place."

For with Roanapur in a lockdown, in a hunt for him, the Triads, Italians, and even the Hotel would be wary about marching towards a rival's grounds. Wars had been started for less threatening misunderstandings. John, however, was explaining the lack of risk to Balalaika.

His timer had already started.

"The information here appears to be a backlog and physical storage location for their drug routes and trade, including the main traffickers, routes, and supplies." He was sure on only two of those, but Balalaika knew more than he regarding which ones. "You are now the only person who knows of their location and availability."

" _And you are telling me all of this… why now?_ " She was interested. Anyone who knew her could tell. She would have laughed or casually threatened life otherwise. " _I believe I have enough work for me as it is, with the Japanese Yakuza being slowly molded into a Russian rug at the moment. What would I need Cartel drug routes for?_ "

"Money, supplies, bodies, or a challenge." John supplied each one easily. He knew she would be interested in any of them. The silence on the other end of the line was telling, and long.

Long enough for John to shut the safe, rolling the pins and letting him realign them to a new code. There was only one set of numbers he cared to use, and set the locks with hardly a thought. He didn't need to focus on their importance, only their familiarity. It produced fewer errors.

The metal box snapped in the same time Balalaika began speaking again.

" _You are well-informed, John,"_ Balalaika spoke through the transceiver. He wasn't focused on her voice. Only her words. He ignored the sound of breaking glass. " _Am I to take this as a peace-offering? A kind of atonement on your part? From what I have heard, you seem to be keen on following those misguided paths._ " He ignored it.

He pushed over one of the many men he had killed, a man slumped against a far wall. His head slumped sideways with his body, handgun falling to the ground uselessly. The gun wasn't what interested him. It was what the man was also holding that did.

" _No, more likely, you are doing this to keep me from finding you._ " The woman continued to guess on the phone, even as he kept his silence. " _A well-intentioned, and honestly rather flattering, gift to me and the Hotel. Aren't you aware that for most stays it's the guest who's supposed to be treated?_ " That was a slang he had not heard in some time.

'Replacing the mints and gum with bullets and lead.' It was how Vigo had described Hotel Moscow to him during his first trip to Roanapur nearly decades ago now. He hadn't focused on it, as he was never intended to be their guest, and they were no place to stay at.

Then again, none of that mattered. He had to focus on the exchange. If he failed this, then it was all for nothing. Reaching down towards the man, he grabbed the set of keys from him, held tightly in his palm.

It didn't matter how they got there. John recognized the floatation device attached to the ring.

"I called only to let you know first what happened here." John kept his voice neutral, eyeing the keys in his hand. Definitely boat keys, but difficult to tell to what craft. He'd have to hurry to the docks and try out the necessary ships. "Mr. Chang will find out soon enough as well. You only have the head start in taking up the operation."

John pocketed the keys, looking around the room once more. A few extra bills were nice, but given their lack of international use, would only be minimally worth carrying. It would have been nice if they had gold or silver. Those were easy to trade.

"In the back room of the central office is a safe containing all their routes and product details." John noted the facts easily. This really was very similar to operations he had done for the Russians hundreds of times before, decades ago now. "I reset the lock to combination 12-10-08. You can get all the details before anyone else even knows they are here."

Silence came from the phone. That was good. It gave him a chance to look for any extra ammunition or short supplies he might need. A new suit would be nice, but he doubted any of them would be worth taking. Yolanda had saved him a nice suit.

" _I have to admit, it's_ awfully _hard to turn down or even ignore such a tempting offer,_ " the woman admitted. All she needed to do was agree. He didn't care how. It was beyond his focus on that. " _But that combination… I'm not familiar with it. Does it hold significance to you? Is it, perhaps, the anniversary of the day you left us?_ "

"It's Helen's birthday," John returned easily. The soon she got her answers, the more likely she was to agree. He didn't have time to waste, not until Balalaika agreed to the plan.

The silence that returned meant something, but he didn't care to think on what. If anything else, it only meant that she was thinking. And the more a woman like Balalaika thought about something, the sweeter the deal it made. Russians always though the same.

" _I am sorry about her, John_ ," her voice came through again.

He didn't care what she thought. Balalaika had nothing to do with Helen.

" _Were this only a few weeks earlier, I would loved to have sat down and spoken to you about her over tea. I'm sure there would have been much to talk about_." No, there really wouldn't have been. John pushed open a closet door as the Russian kept talking, shoving a body out of the way as he did so. He found himself faced with several choice firearms, unorganized and more thrown into the compartment like coats at a dinner party. Nothing of value then.

" _But you do know that this gamble of yours won't last forever,_ " she sounded off again. " _True, and I'll give you credit, this chance to seize a bit more of Roanapur is unbelievably tantalizing, and a chance to perhaps spark a bit of a gang war with the Cubans across the seas._ " Rock was right then.

That was good. It was good to know that the man he had spoken to had good intel. It would have made this all an otherwise worthless risk. But in truth, it remained just that until Balalaika agreed.

" _But who's to say that I don't take advantage of this new… distraction,_ " her voice continued to muse through the phone. It didn't matter what else she said. John was just waiting for the right words. " _Mr. Chang will doubtlessly want to capitalize on this as well. Make more ground for the Triads. It would give me less competition in hunting you down_."

John hear a rustling from outside the door. He raised his gun, aiming at the open section of the door. His knees were already bent, ready to roll if necessary. The rustling was getting louder, and lower.

" _You did kill several of my men,_ good _men. Soldiers that I trusted and who trusted me. I can hardly be said your actions were anything less than surprising to everyone here, and throughout Roanapur. You could say your little act reminded us all just how dangerous the Babayaga really is_." Her words didn't matter.

The noise outside the door mattered. A rustling sound that John was starting to recognize. The sound of a jacket being pulled and pushed across the floor, the same sound made when you were dragging or searching a body violently. Something was still alive. His gun poked open the door to see.

" _But the difference between us, John, is what we value_." John wasn't listening. He was staring at the source of the noise, barrel aimed between the eyes of the beast.

A dog, growling up at him.

" _I would not forsake my men by losing a hunt for you. Just as you would not forsake the few left in this world you care about. Such as your precious dog-"_

 **BANG** _Yip!_

John watched the beast fall to the side, blood pooling out of its skull and mixing with the man he was searching. Maybe his master, looking for a treat. Maybe a mutt that had wandered in. He couldn't be sure, it was beyond his focus. The dog was dead anyways.

He still needed Balalaika to finish. Perhaps she needed a reminder.

"All that the Cartel has in its base is yours. If you do not take advantage of it now, someone else will," he spoke again, eyes looking down the hallways, bloody and full from the path he had cut. "I'll be gone by the time your men arrive."

He searched his pocket again, confirming the keys he had found. One of them would work, hopefully. If not, now would be the optimal time to stowaway. Do so now while the Hotel and Triads were picking up what was left of the Cartel.

" _… Best you do John. I won't stop my men if they see you._ "

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

" _Take care of yourself. I'll be coming for you when I'm done absorbing what little the Cartel has. Don't count on it taking me too long._ " And in truth, John wouldn't. He had been focused enough on Balalaika in the past to know her aptitude for taking on new challenges. This was just one more for her to handle.

Be that as it may, it was all that he needed to get away and find somewhere new to hide. It was all he needed.

" _Be seeing you, John._ "

 _Click_ The dial tone echoed through the phone, empty as the threat.

"Yeah, be seeing you."

John dropped the phone at the body he walked over, already useless to him now. He couldn't afford to be traced. And now, he didn't have one.

A ship to a now defunct section of the Cartel, no electronics on him, and days to get ahead of his pursuers. He had everything he needed to escape now. All but one thing, that is.

He still needed to pick up his dog.


	11. Be Seeing You

"Just like that?" Revy asked Dutch, palms on his desk and just barely keeping her voice from yelling. "The fucking demon of the Russian mob blows into town, fucks up half the shithole, then skips it just as quickly?" It all seemed pretty quick for Rock as well. "What kind of shit is that?"

"The kind of shit I wish more jobs were made out of," Dutch replied. He massaged his scalp Revy spoke boots up on his desk and probably holding back a sigh. "We dealt with the devil himself, got wrapped up in a war between heaven and hell, and the worst thing that happened a little loss in time and inventory. I'm not gonna bait this to be worse, Revy."

Rock watched the exchange from the sofa, staring at the cup of coffee that was on the table, steaming. He could feel the heat coming off of it, a cool sensation compared to the room he was locked in with John Wick. Hell, he was sure, was a colder climate then any place that man had been.

Then again, he had received far more compassion from the Babayaga than he had many other killers and thieves in the corrupted landscape of Roanapur.

And that compensation sat in the company safe where it belonged.

"I'm just happy the plan worked," Rock spoke up from the 'discussion' Revy and Dutch were having. "John got to appease Balalaika, at least long enough for him to get away. Plus, with the new shipment routes being added onto the Hotel, we'll likely be asked to take on the product Balalaika's not used to." He knew how the Russian boss would think.

"Ya ain't wrong, Rock," Dutch agreed from across his desk. "No way in hell Balalaika's gonna risk her men with new product till she's tested the waters. And we're the best fucking canaries money can buy." He clapped with the words.

"Well fuck me sideways," Revy added on. "Even managed to drag out extra work with that deal of yours, huh Rock?" She popped her leg as she spoke, what little she could without risking the stitches. Per usually, she didn't seem to care at all about them. "You're gonna tell me next that it was all part of your plan, right? Just risking hide, head, ass, and tail for a bit of extra dough?"

"No, it wasn't," Rock didn't even try and pretend. Baiting Revy never worked out, not unless she was drunk at the Yellowflag. "I actually thought that Balalaika would keep away from us after what happened." Because she wasn't stupid.

"You mean after we basically hid from her that we had the freaking demon of the Russian Mob in the palm of our hand and didn't put him on the fine silver for her?" Silver platter, that was what she probably meant. "Nah, big sis ain't like that. She knows where business begins and ends, and business damn near always tops drinking buddies, especially in this city." Remembering Hansel and Gretel, Rock could see what she meant.

They still did work with her, even after she murdered a couple of kids who never had a chance.

"You're both thinking too much about our good luck. That's the best way to jinx it." Dutch cajoled the pair of them. Rock nodded his head, as he had been taught through years in Japan. "When you get a fine deal in front of you, 'specially one you risked your ass and hide for, you don't sniff around it. You pick it up, roll with it, and be prepared for the assholes that'll rip you a new one for screwing them over." It didn't take long to figure out what he meant.

"You mean the Cartel?" Rock still questioned. "We did give John all the information on them, information gathered through work with them." Revy shook her head.

"You sure all the information came from just the jobs, Rock?" He didn't understand. "You sure it wasn't from the drunkards up in the Yellowflag braggin' 'bout the next big shipment comin' in, or where they keep the stashes of the good shit deep in their hiding holes?" No, he was rather confident that was not where all the information came from.

"Yeah, that sounds 'bout right to me," Dutch added on. "Good old John was in the bar with the lot of you before Balalaika's men pissed him off. Make sense if he heard a good rumor of the idiots up there." But John was looking for a ship, not information, at least at that point in time. John twisted his eyes.

They widened as he realized what they were talking about.

"Y-Yeah, you're right." His hand scratched the back of his head, amending his thoughts. "Most of my information did come from there, probably between drinking games with Revy and me. That's what made it easy to figure out which buildings mattered more to them, considering where most of them came from and went to when they were done." Dutch nodded approvingly at him.

"Makes sense to me. Loose lips sink ships, per the rules of good old Roanapur." The head of the company noted as he lifted the cigarette to his mouth. Its tip burned to cinders as he lit a flame at the head of it. "Just go to show that we're the best in the business when it comes to doin' the dirty work, cause even drunk off our ass or bein' beat to hell in someone's basement, were' always looking for the better deal." Rock laughed nervously at the joke.

"And that's all we're doin' in those basements," Revy added on. Rock could see her fingers tracing the grips of her Cutlass. "Cause if the fucking Babayaga is any proof, we're the last god damn smugglers you wanna fuck around with." Dogs would have run from her grin. Rock smiled up at it.

"With you two around, no doubt, about that." Dutch let out a groan as he leaned back in his chair. "Still, gotta admit that I'm more than satisfied when jobs like this come and go. Not the kind of shit I want dragging on us for the rest of the company's life." Rock understood perfectly well what he meant. Revy did not.

"Huh? You serious boss?" She asked, snarling as she tilted her head. "This is the kind of shit I wanna sew onto a poor bastard's face when he starts trying to wave his dick 'round the city. We gotta run next to and fuck shit up with and _fucking against_ the Babayaga. That kind of dick length would scare off the bitches for miles and miles."

"That is the issue, Revy," Rock added on. He didn't flinch as her sharp snarl focused on him. "While it would give us a reputation for ingenuity and endurance, it would also give us a liability charge that most people would not be willing to pay, or falsely assume is present and avoid us all together." She didn't understand, not with the way her fingers were flipping around the grip of her Cutlass again.

"Rock's talking 'bout customers, Revy. Talking about going toe-to-toe and back-to-back with John would turn some heads and tails, but it'll chase away anyone lookin' for a discreet job." His hand motioned towards the window, for the boat they were named after. "In the smugglin' business of Roanapur, that's the name of the game. Reason number two we get so many good contracts from the Triads and Hotel. We don't talk shit about what we do. That ain't gonna start now that John Wick has blown in and out of this dump."

"Not to mention that we would likely be targets for whomever is pursuing John." Rock had not forgotten that this was only ever a small bump in the road for the demon of the Russian Mob. "If word reached out that he obtained his information either through or from us, then we would likely be hunted in a similar manner." The same thing hardly happened in Japan. The closest he could think of were competing companies using similar contractors in order to obtain the same cost efficiency in shipping, transport, or other services required.

The bottom was all that mattered, and emulating a successful rival was hardly unthinkable when a company wished to survive. It made perfect sense that the same mantra was nearly the same here.

"So we gotta keep our lips shut to keep our asses pure?" Revy asked. Her head rolled until her ponytail came up over her shoulder. "Thinkin of the number of things I've heard the rest of the bastards talk up about on drink nights, I'm thinkin' that's some special kind of hot shit. I get keepin the mouths shut for the details on a job, but we got paid fuck all for this."

"You wanna call the debt of John Wick shit, be my guest," Dutch easily threw back. "Probably didn't get this from having him go from client to target and back again, but that man is loyal to anything he promises. Only thing ta stop him short of death is something he promised even earlier. Shit, I wouldn't be surprised if the reason this whole hell hole got opened up was because some poor dumb mother fucker stopped him from keeping one of his damn promises." Rock could easily see that aspect of the man.

"Great, a killer with a heart of gold. Too bad he's got the fucking luck of satan on his side." Revy spat the word out. Rock honestly couldn't tell if it was an insult or not. She leaned back on Dutch's desk with a sigh. "Still, getting' through all of this with just a new flesh wound to brag about is fucking crazy. Wouldn't mind trying my luck in a casino next time we run by one. Bet I'd get crazy eights." And he didn't know what game involved that.

"Bet anything ya want but that Marker and we're good." It was no surprise he would say that.

It was probably worth more than the keys to the Lagoon boat. Rock could still see that black dial, sitting in the false panel of the safe beneath Dutch's desk, his bloody finger print and all.

A deep sigh left his mouth, leaning over his legs as he sat on the couch. It was hard to relax in a city like Roanapur, where you could die just for walking down the wrong street or saying hi to the wrong man. It really did put into perspective how easy it was to die. And John Wick certainly had a hand in that.

It only made sense that the tension of the city would leave with him. Anything that involved him, Rock now realized, was as bad as playing chicken with a shinigami. His ancestors would curse him for ever entertaining the thought.

 _Ring-Ring Ring-Ring_ Dutch snatched up the phone, putting him and Revy into a patient silence.

"Lagoon Company, what's your poison?" Dutch asked, leaning back and staring at the ceiling through the thick of his glasses. They heard a voice on the other end of the line respond. "Sounds good to me. Give me the details and I'll get a quote."

Rock spared a glance at Revy as they waited for their boss to finish the negotiations. She was watching him, too. Her eyes were as sharp as ever, caught somewhere between the sharp glare that was provoking death and the wary glare of a trained killer. Even with a batch of stitches on her leg, she looked no less a threat, and Rock knew she was never anything less. That was what made the realization that she could die so sickening to him.

She'd almost killed herself fighting John Wick.

Maybe it wasn't then specifically, wrestling him in the Russian compound with his life on the line, but it was certainly one of the few straws that broke the camel's back. He'd watch her run through gunfire with a grin, shoot of rockets and cackle, then fist-fight a trained mercenary for the fun of it. She'd always gotten close to death, but there had always been something else there to save her.

Against John, it was the first time he realized that sometimes that had to be him. He couldn't count on someone stronger saving her, not when there were men and killers out there that could fight her to a stand still and walk away without a word. Sometimes, it was on him to be smarter than her, so she could be stronger than him.

He was the bullet. She was the gun.

Rock grinned toothly at Revy, knowing all too well that she'd hit him later for it. Probably at least.

For now, she only returned it with a shark-like grin of her own.

"All sounds good to me. Put it at two kay for the first crate then one and a half for each one after that. Probably manage twenty max 'fore we start going into the nuclear hot territory." Dutch patched out the numbers on the phone, a muffled response following. "Cool. We can hit the water in the hour. See you there, ma'am." Rock shut his eyes at the words.

There was only ever one ma'am in Roanapur, and it certainly wasn't Revy Two-Hands.

"C'mon, we got work for the Hotel." Rock wasn't sure how to feel about that. "Balalaika got us a smuggling job with the Americans, easy cash to make up for the hell she threw us into." At least he knew what the leader of the Hotel had done.

"You sure it's not a trap?" Revy asked, and rock couldn't blame her for the thought either. "We didn't exactly stay on her good side through all of this. Fuck, I'm just surprised she's not blowin' in here with AR's just to teach the rest of this shithole a lesson."

"Not likely while she's busy dealing with that whole new enterprise her Hotel is drumming up," Dutch let out as she stood. He grabbed the keys to the boat from his desk drawer, enough of a sign of where they were going. "She ain't Hitler trying to start a Battle of the Bulge. Her operations are plenty smooth with us on her good side. No need trying to stoke a fire while she's blazin' a trail through the Cartel's lands."

So they were already on it, not even a day later and Balalaika had already plotted out goods to transport. Rock shook his head. That likely meant they really were going to be the canaries in the mine. What a real hassle.

"Don't sweat the idea of her turning hot lead on us," Dutch went on, even as he stood to pull his vest over his dark chest. "It's like we said before, business is business, and she ain't gonna start knocking out her best smuggling team just cause we got another job from someone else. Way she probably sees it, we mighta helped the killer run, but we never put a 9mm to her mens' heads. Cause of that, we're square." Rock could agree with that.

The Hotel killing them? Rock was sure wouldn't happen.

Balalaika needed the Lagoon company too much, and the rest of the city was aware of it. They weren't a street vendor looking for a break. They were a smuggling operation tied to the Hotel, Triads, and every small group between.

And if that wasn't enough, Balalaika always had to have guessed how John got the information that he did. She must have known that he wouldn't have been bought for a low amount, that he was low on cash in the first place, and a man with little to give but his body would offer his services. And the services of the most dangerous man in the world were worth far more than any amount of gold.

Balalaika was smart, so she wouldn't risk them calling in the Babayaga on her.

For better or worse, they were safe from her so long as they kept the dog away. Rock couldn't help but chuckle.

"You think of somethin' funny, Rock?" Revy asked at his chuckling. "Ya thinking of some hot piece of ass I'm missin' out on?" He shook his head at her question.

"No, nothing like that," he easily dismissed. "Just realized how lucky we really were through all this. Can't help but think we should all really be dead right now." Not the total truth, but not a lie in the slightest.

"Don't fucking remind me," Revy added back with a growl through her teeth. "I still got that fucker's dead eyes stare in my face with the fucking Takarov pistol. Fucking pisses me off I almost got capped by that fucking pea-shooter."

"After you wrestled with John, I'm pretty sure you would've gone down in history for just getting him off his feet." After seeing him put a tear through the HQ of the Cartel, John definitely was to Rock.

"No shit there." Revy pushed off the desk, walking behind Rock and double tapping his shoulders. "Would've still been pretty bad if I did bite it, before you pop your own knee and all." Rock heard her words, but he didn't quite understand them. At least not until he imagined it.

A knee popped out, forcing him to kneel on the other. His mind felt blank at the image.

"Hey, you both make us late and I'll let Balalaika cap you both," Dutch called out, shaking Rock from his dreams. He looked up to see Revy cackling at the door, her grin still more vicious than a shark's and with the confidence to match.

He sighed as he stood, knowing that they couldn't delay.

Just another day in the city of thieves.

* * *

Roanapur was never a city he wanted to stay in. He had already been in it far longer than he ever wished to be. He had been focused on leaving the city, and his focus to the tasks at hand had payed off.

John Wick was leaving the city of thieves.

The city was already far out of sight. That was good. That was what he needed for the past few days, so for it to finally be gone was easily the greatest accomplishment so far. Nothing crowded his vision now, not the seedy alleys that hid the sticky hands or sharp blades, not the corrupt police or terrified owners. Nothing to remind him of the darkest city of killers.

Now, John had his vision swept up in the rolling trees of the Thailand jungles. The thick emerald foliage rolling by as he settled himself into his seat. He focused on that, the departing landscape. It was something focus on now that he was out of the city. Now that Roanapur was behind him.

Not the waves of the ocean from a boat's edge, but the passing trunks of trees from the window of a bus.

He had to focus on how to leave Roanapur, and he knew this was the best option. Too many knew that he was searching for a boat, a way to leave by sea. Sea made when you were trying to escape, as there were no roads you were restricted to and no monitoring like the many governments did the skies. A boat would have been the best option, before nearly all of Roanapur was aware of his plan.

Now, a bus was the next best option. No shift to the departure schedule, no additional pay-off of cash or coin, no searches for authorization to board, only a simple pass and a single seat for the trip. It was all that he needed, and that was all that he took.

John let his hand fall to his side, rubbing the top of his dog's head. The boy whined at the contact, tired and pushing against the seat he lay down next to. John didn't disturb him. He was only focused on ensuring he was there, safe and unharmed. That was important now. It was the next thing to focus on.

He no longer had to focus on the Hotel, on Dutch, on the Triads, on Yolanda, or all of Roanapur. He only had to focus on where to go next. To do that, he needed to remember where he had been.

His head leaned back on the cushioned seat of the bus, letting the rumble of the vehicle dull out the noise of the engine. His suit was already worn, despite the short time he had worn it, meaning he would need to find a place to wash it. The guns he had carried were disposed of in some non-descript alley of Roanapur, left for the next diver to find. It was no longer something he had to focus on.

He had focused on he bus as he boarded, and he knew it was safe for it. No killers that gave a high-sign, no affiliations to the Hotel, Triads, or Cartel, no pick-pockets that shifted seats, nothing to give him alarm. Just a bus, like a train, neutral ground to those of the Continental. Safety, no matter how brief.

John bounced lightly in his seat, the bus likely having run over a crack or pothole in the road. It was enough to keep him awake. It wasn't enough for him to focus on. For now, there was nothing to focus on. Not until the bus stopped again. He wouldn't find anything in the trees to focus on, or anyway to stop it if there was.

Instead, he focused on what he knew. And he knew that he had escaped.

Escaping the terror of Roanapur through the destruction of a Cartel's chain, the death of the Hotel by leaving behind a more enticing treat, the wariness of the Triads by taking nothing of the city with him, and Dutch by leaving behind the Marker that was his debt. It was all behind him now, and for a moment, it would remain that way.

A long sigh left his lips, head leaning back with tired eyes shutting. His dog moved to rest its head on his lap, snuggling closer to him. He didn't push the boy off. It was important to focus on himself from time to time, on what to do when there was no violence, no threat of death. Now was such a time.

His fingers curled and unrolled from fists to slack palms, stretching the tired muscles. His back pushed and formed the cushion of his seat into a comfortable shape, letting him have some measure of solace. Even the dull hum in the air from the bus's transport let him mind rest at ease, keeping away the absolute silence of the vehicle otherwise.

It was a space of peace, one that he had lost in his old home. One that he doubted he'd ever completely regain. Not with Helen gone. Not with him back in the game. John knew he had to focus on what was coming.

The Cartel would know it was him who attacked, either because Balalaika would let it slip or Mr. Chang would tell them to keep peace in Roanapur. He would always take action that prevented war within the city. Balalaika would enjoy it, but she didn't care of the citizens like the former cop. It didn't matter to him, because it was beyond his focus.

He had to focus on what the Cartel would do. Possibly hire a killer or two from the Continental, maybe offer more to his bounty. They would put him on alert in any city they had a hub or safehouse, making him a high priority target. A revenge killing at that. He only needed to avoid them, that was all.

Balalaika would take time to come after him again. Maybe a few months, possibly a year, but she would likely come again. Once she had absorbed the totality of the smuggling routes and product of the Cartel, she would make him her next priority target. So long as he kept from Russia, Japan, and Thailand, he could avoid her. The States may be the safest, but he couldn't tell just yet.

Mr. Chang and the Triads would make it most difficult. They likely had no reason to pursue him, other than the money. They were the only the gang that would gladly accept contracts for killing and kidnapping, while the Cartel and Russian Mafia preferred to use those tactics only for establishing their trade routes or product. Mr. Chang would easily accept it though, seeing it as another way to profit the Triads while keeping the city safe. He had to avoid most Eastern countries then, as well as China towns.

Dutch and the Lagoon company would hire him in the future, paying his debt off to him. When they did, that was when things would be difficult.

It was impossible, even focusing on the work that Dutch took on and the experience his team had, what they would bring him on for. They didn't do killings, some kidnappings, mostly smuggling. They could use him as a decoy for a dangerous shipment, ask him to be a guard while going through a long stretch of territory, or maybe even just set him up so they could collect the profit of his bounty.

And the debt of the Marker meant he had no choice but to accept whatever they brought to him. It was a debt he knew he had to accept, begrudgingly at that. But that was not to pass for sometime.

Dutch was too careful, Rock was the same. They wouldn't call him for something simple, so it would take time before they called him at all. That was fine with John.

From what he could remember, there was nothing else of Roanapur he needed to focus on. All other debts were repaid and problems taken care of.

For now, he could focus on moving on. He had the world on his tail.

But for now, he could focus on nothing at all.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

And so, like the lone gunman, John Wick rides off into the sunset, content with a job well done. I'm hoping for the same feeling, but I'll settle with 'holy fuck its over'.

Not the longest story I've ever written, sure, but I think I did pretty good nailing characters with this one, which was the point. John's heavy focus playing off in his gunman ship and conversation, the trickiness of Balalaika, Revy's over the top brashness and colorful language, all the works. I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I did, because holy crap this chapter and the last were frick all to write.

Nearly 20,000 words in a week? And I gotta do that for Unknown Legends? Just kill me now!

Seriously though, this story is over, and if you have any questions, please feel free to PM me. I don't plan on continuing this, as I always planned this as a sort of John Wick 2.5, before 3 proper comes out next year.

Apologies again if he grammar is shite, but that's what happens when you're working off of four hours of sleep a night, high blood sugars, three jobs, and moving to a new apartment!

Cheers all and I hope again that you all enjoyed the ride! I'll be seeing you!


End file.
